WSG 1: Book II: Above and Beyond
by Kelso323
Summary: As the survivors of the Twelve Colonies confront the new and deadly realities of the universe around them, old sins and secrets will arise from the ashes of a forgotten past to once again threaten the survival of the human race.
1. Grunts

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Still nothing on wireless, sir," sighed Petty Officer Rocca, shaking her head slightly as she looked back across CIC to Commander Kelso.

"Damn," muttered Kelso, his fingers gently drumming away on the plot table as he cast his eyes back up to the DRADIS displays overhead.

It had been close to twenty minutes now since wireless contact had been lost with both Gaines' team as well as the Raptors and Scimitar flying overwatch. But while they couldn't talk to them, they were at least still in firm DRADIS contact with the trio of loitering Colonial craft. Per mission profile, all three were making a wide circle around the valley that Gaines' team was searching, keeping tight to the surrounding mountain ranges. Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso tried to at least take that as a good sign; if they hadn't changed their flight profile then presumably the Raptors and Scimitar were still safe in spite of the loss of wireless contact.

What was still decidedly unclear, however, was the actual status of Gaines' team as well as the identity and disposition of the four unknown craft that had appeared just prior to the loss of wireless contact. The four unknowns had come in fast along the surface from somewhere beyond the horizon. Their presence, or more precisely, their rapid appearance on the scene presented Commander Kelso with two decidedly uncomfortable possibilities; either there was some sort of base or airfield on the surface they didn't know about or they had come from a ship, maybe even several ships, loitering just beyond DRADIS range on the far side of the moon.

But much as he did with the fact that his own birds were still showing up on the screens overhead, Commander Kelso tried to take it as a good sign that the four unknown craft hadn't landed or begun to loiter near Gaines' last reported position. Nevertheless, the mere presence of the four unknown craft still left the Commander more than a touch unnerved.

Sifting through wreckage was one thing, even hunting down a wireless beacon might seem somewhat innocuous overall, but having four unknown aircraft operating so close to his people, moreover, having at least one of those contacts apparently land so close to the origin of the wireless signal they were sent to investigate was enough to make him wary.

"Hangar deck reports Alert Five Vipers are prepped and ready to deploy on your order, Commander," said Major Burke evenly as she stood with the handset pressed to her ear.

"Very well, Major, go ahead and have them launch and augment the CAP," replied Kelso evenly as he continued to watch the contacts near the surface on DRADIS. "They are to hold orbit for now, but I want them ready to vector in on that valley on a moment's notice."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, nodding gently as she began relaying the order over the handset.

As he watched the additional Vipers sortie out to meet up with the CAP, Commander Sean Kelso took in a deep breath, fighting back against his instinct to simply send his planes in. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that were he to do so, his pilots would be operating in an almost complete information vacuum. So far as he could tell from the DRADIS track, none of his people were under any direct threat, more to the point, he was reluctant to take any overtly offensive action without any clear idea of who or what his Vipers would be encountering.

No.

Much as he hated it, Commander Kelso knew he had to play this situation very much one step at a time, matching action for action; rash decisions tended to create more problems than they ever solved. But as he continued to stare up at the DRADIS display the Commander was forced to concede that the deeper they waded into this already murky situation, more and more questions kept bubbling to the surface, and woefully few answers.

With his eyes firmly locked on the unknown contacts on DRADIS, Commander Kelso took in a deep, steadying breath.

"Come on now," he muttered under his breath. "No harm done if you do, but just tell me who the hell you are."

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines  
>United States Marine Corps<br>Operation Redline**

Captain Nathan West huddled down tight behind a large boulder as one of the three Chig fighters overhead came around for another low pass, the enemy fighter firing off a torrent of weapons blasts that peppered the area around him

Coughing heavily from the dust kicked up by the blasts, West sucked himself in as close to the large boulder he was hiding behind as he possibly could, his mind feverishly playing through the whirlwind of events that had brought him to this miserable chunk of rock, literally a moon at the proverbial ass-end of nowhere that hadn't even rated a proper name.

Six months ago, it had been his squadron, the Fifty-Eighth, that had inadvertently warned the Chigs of the objective of Operation Roundhammer, the long-awaited invasion of the Chig homeworld that would have brought the long and brutal interstellar war against the aliens to an end. While scouting the moon of the enemy homeworld, codenamed Anvil, the members of the Five-Eight had come across a lone alien being on the surface, a being they'd believed could possibly be the last of its kind. At the time, he and his fellow squadron members had believed they were doing the ethical thing, warning the lone creature they'd come across on Anvil of the impending invasion, upholding the hallowed ideal that even in war there were limits to what was morally acceptable or conscionable.

But instead of the grand humanitarian gesture they'd intended, the members of the Fifty-Eighth Squadron soon learned that the life form they'd encountered, far from being the last of its species, was in fact a civilian member of the same enemy species that had butchered countless human lives. Their lone act of compassion and mercy had the horrific consequence of extinguishing the flickering hope for peace.

With Roundhammer compromised, the leadership for the United Nations combined fleet had been left with little choice but to try and play out hastily arranged negotiations with a Chig peace envoy, a gamble that ended with equally abysmal results when the Chig Ambassador staged a suicide bombing aboard the _Saratoga_. With no back-up plan and no clear course of action to take in the face of unfolding events, the combined Earth forces had instead stutter-stepped.

In that vacuum of initiative by Earth forces, the Chigs, apparently very much mindful of how close their own homeworld had come to becoming human-occupied territory reemerged from the Helios system with a vengeance. All along the stalled front the combined Earth fleets and ground-based garrisons fell under siege, the advances into enemy territory gained through hard-won victories at staggering costs in terms of lives steadily rolling back in the face of the enemy's revitalized military juggernaut.

In one of many attempts to stabilize the line, _Saratoga_ and the remains of the Fifteenth Fleet had landed a Marine infantry force on this miserable backwater moon to establish a forward operating base and airfield. Dubbed Operation Redline, the mission had begun with moderate hopes of success bolstered by a determination to at last stabilize the lines before the enemy rolled over the last of their resistance.

Now however, just over four months after the first boots hit the ground, the operation seemed doomed to go down as one of several catastrophic failures in a war that had already claimed far too many lives. That is, if history, _human_ history at least, survived long enough to learn their fate.

Four months of nearly constant fighting had whittled the once three-hundred-plus strong infantry company down to only a few dozen, including Nathan West.

When it had first become apparent that it was the actions of the Fifty-Eighth which were directly responsible for the Chigs uncovering what had been one of Earth's most closely guarded secrets, it had seemed all but certain that a general court-martial for treason was the fate awaiting the once-irreproachable Fifty-Eighth squadron.

As if that was truly the worst fate they could have suffered.

But no, fate had again intervened instead.

The suicide bomber's assassination of some key officers and officials of the unified Earth forces caused still more confusion as events spiraled frenetically away from their control. Amid the chaos, it had been Commodore Ross, himself disobeying a direct order, who'd thrown the seemingly disgraced Fifty-Eighth back into the fray by assigning them to rescue a group of repatriated civilian prisoners, including Nathan's beloved Kylen Celina.

And it was during that fateful engagement the hallowed luck of the Wildcards at last seemed to be played out.

In staying behind aboard a jettisoned cargo module, Paul Wang had almost assuredly died valiantly fending off Chig fighters as the ISSAPC carrying the civilians made good its escape, his defiant battlecry echoing over the radio as a Chig fighter, crippled by his withering counter-fire, slammed headlong into the module.

The fate of Shane Vansen and Vanessa Damphousse was even more distressing if only because of its ambiguity. After their cockpit had been blasted free from the rest of the ISSCV airframe by enemy fire, the module had plummeted to the surface of Celestial Body Two-Zero-Six-Three-Yankee. Disappearing beneath the sickly green clouds of the upper atmosphere, the survival of the two Marines was anything but certain since no SAR mission had been possible.

And in no way less devastating was the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen, long-since evacuated back to Earth after losing his leg in the suicide bombing itself.

In the space of a day, the tight-knit unit that had endured some of the worst of the war at each other's side had been eviscerated; all that remained were West and Cooper Hawkes.

To the remaining brass, it must have seemed hardly worth convening a court-martial, especially in light of the fact that the military situation had begun to utterly deteriorate.

But even without the stigma of a court-martial hanging over them, West and Cooper had nevertheless found themselves cast as virtual pariahs amongst their peers for their role, no matter how inadvertent, in undermining Roundhammer.

Perhaps the one safe harbor West and Hawkes still had was the blanket of protection Commodore Ross had placed around them. In spite of the fact that his faith in the Five-Eight had been bowed, it had apparently not been broken. In rapid order, he'd pushed through West's promotion to Captain and began using both remaining Wildcards like his personal special operators as the fleet reeled under the renewed pressure from the Chigs.

So it was that as the retreating Earth forces tried to rally, landing a ground force on this particular chunk of miserable rock to reestablish a line of resistance, West and Hawks had been assigned to fly shotgun on the effort as air-support.

"A tough job needs my _toughest_ operators," Ross had said.

West wondered if the Commodore had any idea how much of an understatement that had been.

The first boots had hardly been on the deck long enough to get dusty when a Chig strike force had arrived in system, pounding the Earth fleet hard enough that they were forced to withdraw from orbit before the full landing contingent had been offloaded.

With no ships in orbit, no support or means of extraction, the few Marines already on the ground were quickly cut off.

For West, it had felt like a replay of the near rout at Demios all over again with one at least initially somewhat satisfying difference.

During the operation on Demios, the Fifty-Eighth had already landed their planes on the surface when the enemy struck, losing them in the initial Chig counterattack. This time, however, West and Hawkes had still been in the air when the Chigs arrived. Outnumbered nearly nine to one, the two battle-honed aviators had nevertheless made a good account of themselves, occupying the Chig aircraft long enough for most of the infantry on the ground to retreat from the open areas and find cover. But while the duo managed to knock seven of the enemy's fighters from the sky, the time had come for West's own luck to run out.

After jinking to avoid an enemy missile, enemy cannon fire had peppered his left wing, nearly sheering it away. With his critically crippled plane heeling over from a complete loss of hydraulic pressure to the control surfaces, it began to fall from the sky with no hope of recovery. With his panel lit up light a Christmas tree and warning alarms screaming of an imminent explosion in his fuel supply, West cranked the chicken-switch, punching out of his doomed plane with barely enough altitude left for his chute to open safely.

As for Hawkes, the last he'd seen of his wingman was a pair of afterburner contrails ascending up into the sky with the remaining Chig fighters in hot pursuit.

But from that moment on, for Nathan West, the comparison with the months-long hell on Demios only continued to grow all the more profound once he was on the ground.

With his Hammerhead a smoldering wreck on the desert floor, West had thrown his lot in with the stranded grunts. As days turned into weeks, and then weeks into months with no contact from the fleet, the looming certainty that rescue was not forthcoming was cemented within the minds of everyone on the ground. Worse still, the Chigs had not been content to simply let them wither on the vine, regular skirmishes with the enemy slowly gutted the infantry unit's chain of command until West alone remained as the sole commissioned officer alive thrusting him into the role of head honcho almost by default.

So it was, that as the strafing Chig fighters made another pass overhead, West seriously considered having Commodore Ross add the Oh-Three-Oh-Two Infantry Officer occupational specialty to his service jacket.

If he survived that is…

As the Chig fighters pulled away to come around for another pass, Captain Nathan West looked up past the choking dust and felt the slightest twinge of guilt.

Here he was, a Captain in the United States Marine Corps, huddling underneath a boulder like some addled child. The annals of the Corps' long history seemed to scream out that he wasn't supposed to be hugging a rock while the enemy was nearby. He was 'supposed' to be boldly standing atop it, his rifle blazing away with round after round until the enemy understood that hell itself held no fury comparable to that of an enraged United States Marine.

"Bull_shit_!" he sputtered to himself as another pounding barrage rained down all around.

If four months of fighting on this hellish rock had served to reinforce anything in his mind it was that vainglorious audacity might have its place in a Hollywood movie, but it didn't have a place on the field of battle. People who tried to make such gallant stands in real life in the face of the enemy typically had tragically short lives.

Indeed, it had been shallow bravado on the part of some damned boot butter-bar that had gotten his younger brother Neil killed. And in the here and now, far too many lives had already been lost for West to even consider such an act of plucky stupidity; the hard-learned lesson from hearing the last, terrible screams of the fallen echo through the dry air.

Screams of terror and of impotent rage.

Now, as the battered remnants of what was now _his_ unit to command clambered about the small, rocky outcroppings, desperately searching for cover from the withering fire raining down from overhead, West felt a resigned certainty that the end was near.

After over two years of war, Chig SOP was all too well understood.

The fighters overhead would continue to raze the hilltop, killing or otherwise keeping to ground all of his surviving Marines. Meanwhile, the Chig transport that had landed somewhere down below would be disgorging a Chig ground force which would in short order begin its movement up the hill to finish the job.

But more than just kill them, once the Chigs had felled the last of his men, West knew the enemy would then begin to brutally butcher the bodies, his own included, a gruesome compulsion the enemy troops developed during the early stages of the war. Since the Chigs had no beliefs in an afterlife of their own prior to the war, when they first heard of the human concepts of a life beyond death they'd interpreted them literally, believing human corpses actually had the potential to come back to life if they were left intact. Thus, within their cold alien logic, chopping up the bodies of the fallen was the only clear way to prevent their enemy's resurrection.

"Make a hole!"

The voice echoing out nearby had barely registered in West's ears when a pair of boots landed hard next to his face, the body they were attached to tumbling in a ball of flailing limbs and dust a moment later. As another hail of fire pounded the rocks and ground all around, West glanced up to see Corporal Andrew Wilson as he scrambled back over next to West.

"What the hell, Corporal?" burst West as he reached over, grabbing a handful of Wilson's gear and yanking him up beside the boulder.

"Damned Chigs caught me in the middle of taking a crap, Captain," sputtered Wilson as he brought his rifle up and fired off a few rounds at a Chig fighter as it raced by overhead.

"Save your ammo," snapped West as he slapped a hand down on Wilson's shoulder. "Five-Nineties won't so much as chip their paint."

"We can't just _sit_ here while they chew us to shreds, Captain," replied Wilson as he watched another Chig fighter streak by.

"Use your head, Corporal, those fighters are the least of our worries," said West as he too looked up at the fighter. "They're only here to piss us off; it's the ground troops they'll be sending up before too long that we need to worry about."

"Wish I had a SAM right about now," growled Wilson as he watched the Chig fighters coming about for another pass. "A nice heat-seeker right up their _ass_ might make them think twice about flying that low."

"Where's the rest of your team?"

"OP twenty meters over there," replied Wilson as he pointed past a clump of boulders. "Set in with the remains of third squad."

"Then you need to find your way back over to them," said West flatly as he watched the Chig fighters line up for another run.

"Aye, Captain," sighed Wilson, shaking his head slightly.

Crouching for a moment, Wilson quickly made the sign of the cross, took a deep breath, then leapt up, weaving and bounding his way up around the cluster of boulders as the air around him was peppered by Chig fire.

For his part, West didn't have the luxury of spending any time wondering whether Wilson had made it around the other side of the boulders back to his team's OP.

Peering over the boulder he was using for cover, West looked down along the slope of the hill as best he could, the flashes of Chig weapon impacts casting barely enough light for him to make out the Chig infantry assembling near the transport below, roughly eight hundred meters away.

Snapping his rifle up to his shoulder, West aimed in and let off a short burst at the cluster of Chigoes. But before West had a chance to see whether his rounds had found their mark, another hail of strafing fire from the fighters overhead slammed into the area around him.

Twisting around, startled, West stumbled, lost his footing for a moment, then felt a sharp pain in his left ankle as he collapsed back down into the dirt.

As the air and ground around him exploded from weapon impacts, West once more huddled up against the boulder as his ankle throbbed.

Glancing down, he saw no obvious wound, just felt the painful throbbing.

Chig fighters overhead, Chig ground troops preparing to assault up the hill, and now, because of one bad misstep, he'd twisted his ankle.

"Reinforced ankle support, my ass," snarled West as he pointlessly massaged his throbbing ankle through his non-issue, and expensive, boots.

Glancing over, West saw the rock he presumed he'd stepped on, and out of frustration, grabbed it and angrily hurled it away.

It was then that he caught a glimpse of his rifle.

The Chigs might have missed him, but they hadn't missed the rifle.

On the right side of his weapon, a Chig round meant for him had torn into the mechanism, rendering the weapon little more than useless.

Bad ankle and a wrecked rifle…

Even as more fire peppered the area nearby, West simply took a breath and shook his head.

"Isn't this a messed-up war?" he muttered bitterly as he tried to glance around the boulder, only to see another boulder blocking his view.

Looking back up at the night sky overhead, West caught sight of a Chig fighter as it raced by, presenting a beautiful view of its aft end.

Wilson was right; if only they had a SAM.

But wishing wasn't going to do him or his Marines any damned bit of good.

This situation was beyond the help of mere wishes.

"We need a fuggin' _miracle_," he muttered as another Chig fighter angled in for its next strafing run.

* * *

><p><strong>Colonial Marine Recon Team<br>Unknown Moon**

Taking in deep, rapid breaths heavy with exertion, Captain Jordan Gaines rushed up a small rise and dropped to her belly as she reached the top. As her Marines raced up on either side of her, likewise dropping to the ground as they fell on-line with her, Gaines reached down into a pouch on her gear and pulled out her night vision.

Her breathing still heavy from her team having double-timed their way the last couple of kilometers, Gaines nevertheless fought back enough control over her respiration to hold the night vision set steady as she looked out at the hill, now only a few hundred meters away.

The three craft overhead were still making their strafing runs on the area, pounding the hilltop with a withering fire.

"Everyone present and accounted for, Captain," muttered Bowman as he slid in beside Gaines.

"The locator still indicating the signal is on that hill?" asked Gaines as she continued to try and locate something, anything, through the night vision.

Pulling the locator out, Bowman turned it on.

"Strong and steady," he said. "Range indicates it's somewhere on the summit."

Moving her gaze to the peak, Gaines eyes continued to scan the hill for signs of just what it was the strange craft overhead were firing on

But as she scanned the boulders, Gaines began to hear something else besides weapons fire echoing out through the night air.

All too familiar sounds.

As a slow shiver made its way along her spine, Gaines realized all too well what they were.

Screams, all-too-human screams…

Steeling herself to the cold tingle she felt across her body at the sounds of the screaming, Gaines finally caught sight of something on the hilltop. For the few brief moments between strafing runs, Gaines could see figures moving about. Dashing from boulder to boulder, the figures bounded about amid the craggy outcroppings seeking cover.

"Got movement up there," said Gaines as she handed the night vision over to Bowman.

While Bowman gave the hill a look, Gaines cast her eyes up at the three craft as they once more turned around for another run.

"You see them, Corporal?"

"Affirm, Captain," replied Bowman as he shifted his gaze. "Whoever they are, they look to have dug into the defense on the high ground."

"They're keeping to cover, hard to get a handle on how many are up there," muttered Gaines as she looked back at the hilltop.

Just then, the craft overhead let forth with another punishing bombardment.

"Can't say I blame them under that kind of fire," said Bowman as he dropped the night vision away from his eyes. "Stepping out into the open would be the fastest way to meet the gods."

As the blasts lit up the night sky, the flash of light was just bright enough that Gaines thought she could see the larger craft that had landed near the base of the hill, only this time, she also thought she could see movement around the ship.

"Give me those," she muttered as she reached over and snatched the night vision back from Bowman.

Lifting them back to her eyes, Gaines looked out at the base of the slope. While whoever or whatever was occupying the hilltop was keeping to cover, Gaines saw a large group of figures milling around the ship at the base who were doing anything but.

"I've got more movement at the base of the slope," muttered Gaines.

His ears perking up a bit, Bowman scooted forward, gazing out to try and get a view himself as weapons fire continued to light up the sky.

"Think they're with whoever's on the hilltop?"

"Doubt it," replied Gaines flatly. "Unless I miss my guess, that larger ship is some sort of transport, looks like it let out some troops down there."

Handing the night vision over to an eager Bowman, the Corporal snapped them up to his eyes as Gaines looked to either side of her at the rest of her team.

"I count maybe sixty troops down there," said Bowman evenly. "If they're assembling down there, they'll probably be moving up that hill once those ships overhead cease their bombardment."

Taking a deep breath Gaines returned her gaze to the embattled hilltop.

Every so often, she heard a pained scream echo out from the hilltop, punctuated by a cacophony of yelling. Even though she couldn't make out what was being said, Gaines could sense the urgency in their all-too-human-sounding shouts.

And it was pissing her off.

It was then that she realized that Bowman, indeed, every Marine in her team, was watching her intently.

"Orders, Captain?" asked Bowman expectantly as he momentarily lifted the NVGs back up to his eyes.

Looking around at her team, Gaines could practically read what was going through their minds. Taking the night vision back from Bowman, Gaines looked back out at the figures at the base of the hill.

Since they were only a few hundred meters away, far closer than the figures on the hilltop, Gaines could see them quite clearly as they waited next to the transport. They were tall, maybe two meters in height, encased head to toe in what she presumed was some sort of armor, their heads encased in a large, somewhat triangular helmet, a large projection whose function she couldn't even begin to guess at attached to the front of the torso.

As she took in what she was seeing, one thing was clear in Gaines' mind; the bodies they'd found in the desert some kilometers back had _not_ been wearing armor or equipment even remotely similar to what the figures at the bottom of the hill were.

The bodies in the desert had been human, butchered mercilessly, but still clearly kindred.

But as the strange figures milled about at the base of the hill, there was something else odd about them beyond their armor. Although they stood upright like humans, had two arms, two legs, there was something that to Gaines' mind was decidedly inhuman about how they moved, how they carried themselves, aping human movement in such a oddly deliberate or methodically different way that it almost seemed mechanical…

Almost like a Cylon Centurion…

As this profoundly disturbing and incensing thought passed through her mind, Gaines caught a glint of light near one of the figures, the motion of an object that made her heart skip a beat.

It was a blade…

Caught in the light of a fading weapons blast, the image of the curved blade was almost instantly seared into Gaines' consciousness as the image of the butchered bodies once again flashed through her mind…

Just as another terrible, all-too-human scream echoed out from the hilltop…

In an instant, she felt flushed with rage.

And in her rage, Gaines felt a moment of catharsis.

On the top of the hill were human beings, just like her, just like the Marines under her command. And overhead as well as on the ground were beings, _creatures_, not human, who would soon move onto the top of that hill and likely kill every last human being they found there. But not just kill, no, they would butcher them, severing limbs and tearing them apart like they were slaughtering livestock.

And only a few hundred meters in front of her, one of those creatures was checking to make sure its blade was ready for that carnage.

For Gaines, the murky and complex questions washed away, replaced by a burning clarity.

Dropping the night vision back away from her eyes, Gaines looked over to Bowman.

"Bring everyone in one me," she said simply.

Nodding, Bowman quickly made his way along the line, motioning for all the Marines to fall into a circle around the Captain.

As each of them dropped in around her, Gaines glanced back over her shoulder and watched as the craft overhead began a wide circle around for yet another punishing run on the hilltop.

"What's the story, Captain?" muttered Bowman as he dropped to one knee beside the rest of the assembled Marines.

"Okay, people, I have something to say," began Gaines as she looked back at them. "Now I know you saw what happened to those bodies we found, I know it must be as much on your minds as it is on mine, so I need you to listen to what I am about to say very carefully."

Taking a deep breath, she looked intently at each of them.

"Corporal Bowman?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Our orders are to find the source of the wireless beacon, are they not?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

"Now, you say the locator has triangulated the position of the beacon on the top of that hill, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay, now, here's where I need my intent to be understood, people," continued Gaines as she leaned in a little closer to the team. "As I see it, in order to accomplish our mission, we need to _protect_ the source of that wireless beacon, do you follow me?"

"I do, Captain," replied Bowman, grinning slightly.

Looking once more around at her Marines, she saw each of them nodding as well.

"Good, now that we have an understanding, here's what we're looking at," nodded Gaines. "We've got approximately sixty troops in the open near that large wedge-shaped ship preparing to assault up the hill and three aerial targets. We still have those three SAMs handy?"

"Affirmative, Captain," answered Lance Corporal Sahn evenly as she swung her launcher around from her shoulder and cradled it in her lap.

"Good, we'll need them to even the odds a bit," muttered Gaines as she glanced over her shoulder at the hill. "Okay, here's how we'll play this; make ready all three missiles, salvo fire, take out all three craft overhead at the same time. The rest of you, get online with the missile teams, prepare to lay down some heavy suppressive fire with our light belt-feds and MGLs on those troops at the base."

"Okay, you heard the Captain," began Bowman as he popped up. "Let's get it done."

With that, her Marines quickly spread back out in a defensive line along the small dune.

As the three missile teams began preparing their weapons for launch, the remaining Marines set in a couple of belt-fed machine guns. Bowman quickly made his way along the defensive line, checking and rechecking each missile and machine gun team. Pausing on his return leg to snatch up a couple grenade launchers, Bowman made his way back over to Captain Gaines.

"Here you go, Captain," said Bowman as he handed her one of the MGLs.

Taking the weapon in hand, Gaines looked down along the line as the three missile teams took a knee and brought their launchers up onto their shoulders.

"Okay, people, we have _one_ shot at this," she muttered. "Make sure each of you engages a separate craft. Remember; we miss even _one_, we'll be in world of hurt."

With that, each of the three missile teams muttered back and forth with one another until each team was clear on which craft they'd engage.

"Sahn, Obar, Chaffey, you three ready to fire?" muttered Bowman as he looked down along the line.

"One, set."

"Two, is set."

"Three, set, let's do this."

"Prepare to fire on my mark," called Gaines as she looked down across the plain towards the hill.

Lifting the missile launchers up, each of the three teams aimed in as the craft overhead continued their wide arc back towards the hill.

Within moments, each of the gunners called out, "Target acquired."

"Backblast areas all clear," called Bowman as he looked down along the line, ensuring that none of the Marines were behind the missile launchers.

"Gun up!" called all three gunners simultaneously.

"Mr. Bowman, take those motherfrakers out of my sky!" growled Gaines evenly as she watched them angle back in for another punishing strafing run.

"Fire all!" called Bowman.

"Fire in the hole!" called all three gunners.

A moment later, Gaines heard three separate pops; the sounds of the firing motors on the missiles spinning up. A moment after that, three loud bangs echoed out through the night air as all three missiles fired, kicking up a cloud of dust behind their defensive line.

Looking up, Gaines watched as the three projectiles streaked off into the night sky, the rocket motors burning bright against the backdrop of stars as they raced off towards the three craft overhead.

"Come on," she hissed as she watched the missiles rise away.

Finally, she lost sight of the motors.

All she could see were the three craft as they continued to close in on the hilltop.

For one brief, terrible moment, Gaines feared all three missiles had missed their mark, a terrible eternity that lasted right up to the moment she saw three blinding explosions erupt in the night sky, all three craft immediately disintegrating in midair.

The ships hadn't even attempted to evade.

Three craft, three missiles, three hits.

Thank the gods; no duds.

As the smoldering wrecks fell towards the ground, spewing flames and debris, Gaines' Marine likewise erupted in cries of triumph.

As the three burning craft smashing into the desert floor in fiery wrecks, Gaines brought the night vision back to her eyes and returned her attention to the troops assembling near the craft at the base of the hill.

Through the night vision, she could see that they too were looking at the three burning wrecks that had been their air support, seemingly dumbfounded.

But not for long…

Apparently some of them had seen where the missiles had come from, or perhaps had heard the triumphant cry of her Marines. Whatever the reason, a group of the troops immediately turned and began racing towards her team's position. As they started closing in, Gaines dropped the night vision away from her eyes.

With three burning hulks casting new light across the stark battlefield, Gaines had little trouble seeing the figures making their way towards her people.

Without hesitation, Gaines snapped the MGL up to her shoulder and pulled the trigger, lobbing the first high explosive round off towards the advancing figures.

Even as the round she had launched was flying in towards her target, the entire line of Marines, taking their cue from Gaines, opened up with little short of everything they had, instantly filling the air with a thunderous cannonade of rifle, light machine gun and grenade launcher fire.

As the first rounds began tearing into the first wave of advancing figures, a good number of them falling heavily to the ground under the punishing barrage, the rest of the assembled figures turned and charged towards Gaines and her Marines.

With little more than a horde now racing across the few hundred meters directly towards them, the Marines continued to pour round after round into the advancing mass of inhuman troops.

But whatever shock had been instilled by Gaines and her team's unexpected strike, the enemy seemed to recover, opening up with their own weapons as they began rapidly closing the distance. As the return fire began peppering the rocky dune where they'd set in, Gaines and her people hugged closer to the ground, dust and debris flying through the air as round after round of return fire slammed into the ground and tore through the air around them.

"Well, Captain," smiled Bowman as he lay prone in the dirt. "I think we got their attention."

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

As he sat in the dirt, hunched up against a God-forsaken boulder on this God-forsaken moon, a useless rifle cradled in his lap, Captain Nathan West began to view everything around him with a curious detachment. Because of moments like this, West occasionally found himself truly wondering how it was the human brain worked the way it did.

Glancing up over his shoulder, watching the three Chig fighters angling back in for yet another strafing run on the hilltop, West found his mind, curiously, flashing back to his childhood.

Influenced by his parents, Nathan West had never really spent much time playing 'war' like so many other boys in his affluent neighborhood. He'd frankly never seen the point of racing about pretending sticks were rifles, arguing about who had 'shot' whom.

Moreover, even at a young age he'd recognized how shamelessly cliché old war movies could be, glorifying over-the-top testosterone-fueled heroics against the backdrop of what was arguably man's greatest self-inflicted folly and tragedy. Worse still was the oft-overused pseudo-melodrama revolving around the lone hero, trapped and outnumbered fighting against staggering odds being rescued at that last possible second by the unexpected cavalry charge.

And always a victory accompanied by some snappy one-liner…

By every indicator of his youth, Nathan West knew he had been the type of person least likely to join the Marine Corps, and yet here he was.

His younger brother Neil had joined the Corps as well, answering the proverbial call to duty by enlisting as the brutal war with the Chigs dragged on into its second punishing year. But there had been no honor or fame when his brother had died, no heroics, only an utterly pointless skirmish on some other forsaken ball of dirt brought on by an inexperienced officer's near-sighted arrogance and glory-seeking.

It was with that thought passing through his mind that West glanced up to see the three Chig fighters lining up for another approach on the position he and his battered Marines were so bitterly, fatally occupying.

And as he kneeled there glaring up into the proverbial face of the enemy that would soon snuff out his life, Captain Nathan West was struck with an impulse to do something that for him was what many would describe as utterly uncharacteristic.

"Come and get me you shit-eating Chig motherfuckers," he muttered bitterly as he held up his hand and extended a lone middle finger towards the three Chig fighters.

A split second later, to his utter and profound amazement, all three Chig ships exploded in midair.

Stunned, Captain Nathan West followed them with his eyes as they came crashing down to the ground in satisfying heaps of smoldering wreckage.

West then looked curiously down at his own middle finger.

The most powerful middle finger in the universe…

Shaking his head at his own stunned foolishness, West popped up to his feet, reflexively slinging his useless rifle while drawing out his sidearm and looking out at the ruined Chig fighters.

A million questions flashed through his mind…

Had some of his Marines downed the ships somehow?

No, impossible, they had no SAMs…

As his eyes began searching the skies for friendly fighters, West heard the distinct rumble of weapons fire erupt on the plain below.

Scoffing at his own stupidity, caught in his amazement at the downing of the Chig fighters, West realized he'd almost forgotten about the Chigoes assembling near the transport below. As the gunfire continued to echo up along the slope, West crouched back down behind the boulder, his eyes darting about for any sign of the enemy making their advance up the hill.

Sidearm extended, West continued to scan the area but saw no Chig infantry coming up the hill.

As the distinct thud of grenades detonating echoed up the hill, West soon realized that whatever the action was, it was _not_ happening on the hill his Marines occupied.

Curiously indignant that he and his people were seemingly no longer in the thick of the action, West braved a few tentative steps out from cover to look onto the plain below.

A couple hundred meters away from the base of the hill, perched atop a small rocky dune, West saw the heartening muzzle flashes of distinctly non-Chig weapons blazing away, tearing into the horde of Chig ground troops that had until moments ago been preparing to assault up the hill. With the rattling staccato of machine guns echoing out through the air at little less than full auto, whoever it was occupying the small dune on the plain below was pouring a true hell-storm in on the Chigoes.

"Now who the fuck are _these_ guys?" snapped a voice next to West.

Startled, West looked over to see Corporal Wilson standing beside him, a small group of Marines coming up hard on his heels.

Shaken from his mild shock over the profound change in events, West looked back down at the group of Chigs as they began advancing in on the dune, laying down their own withering fire that seemed to be effectively pinning down the unknown benefactors.

"Don't just stand there gawking!" snapped West as he dropped to a knee, aiming in on the Chigoes with his sidearm. "Let's kill some Chigs!"

As West began firing his semi-automatic pistol, the small group of Marines that had charged up with Corporal Wilson formed into a firing line and likewise opened up with a reinvigorated gusto.

With his Marines slowing the Chig advance on the dune with their high angle crossfire, Captain Nathan West found himself resisting an urge to charge down the hill.

Quickly slapping another magazine into his sidearm, West racked the slide and resumed firing feverishly, zealously at the Chigs below.

"This is for seventeen weeks of hell you bastards!" he cried, his finger pulling back on the trigger.

* * *

><p><strong>Marine Recon Team<br>****Unknown Moon**

Popping her head up slightly over the dune, Captain Jordan Gaines couldn't help but second-guess the wisdom of her decision to engage such a numerically superior force at close-range.

True, they'd had the incalculable element of surprise…

True, her team as well as the defenders on the hilltop now had the enemy caught in a crossfire…

But in spite of the punishing fusillade, the strange figures continued to advance in on her team…

If they survived, Commander Kelso was probably going to be pissed.

As the ground in front of her exploded in a cloud of dust from enemy weapon impacts; what the hell kind of weapons were they firing anyway; Gaines dropped down just far enough behind the dune to prevent her head from being torn away.

As she lay there, spitting out the bits of dust and dirt she'd gotten in her mouth, Gaines heard her wireless headset begin to crackle back to life.

"_…me in Junkyard-Six…_"

"This is Junkyard-Six," snapped Gaines as she slapped her hand down on the transmit button.

"_Thank the gods; we were beginning to fear the worst ever since we lost wireless contact with you_."

It was one of the Raptors flying overwatch.

Gaines felt nothing short of elation.

"_Do you know what happened to those bogies, we just lost DRADIS track on three of them._"

Braving a hesitant glance over at the three burning wrecks, Gaines couldn't help but grin a bit.

"I have an idea," she chuckled, glancing over at Corporal Bowman.

Whatever had been jamming the wireless channels had apparently been destroyed along with the three craft.

And with wireless contact restored, Gaines suddenly felt empowered. Her team wasn't alone anymore, and by no means helpless. She'd already made the decision to be proactive, how much more harm could come from taking that decision one step further?

"Junkyard-Six to Deacon, is Sierra One-Zero-Five still holding on station?"

"_Affirmative, Six, go ahead and go direct on this channel._"

"Junkyard-Six to Sierra One-Zero-Five, do you copy?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sierra One-Zero-Five<br>Scimitar Gunship  
>Unknown Moon<strong>

Lieutenant Samantha Larson let out a long sigh of relief as she heard the sound of Captain Gaines filter in over the wireless channel. Like the Raptor crews, Larson had feared the worst when wireless contact with the Marines on the ground had been lost, and still even worse thoughts when three of the contacts they'd been tracking on DRADIS disappeared.

But now that wireless contact was restored, Larson was no small amount of relieved in spite of the unmistakable sound of gunfire evident in the background.

"That woman just refuses to die," muttered Lieutenant John Becker from the back seat of the rugged Scimitar gunship.

"She didn't on Sagittaron, why start now?" replied Larson evenly.

"_Junkyard-Six to Sierra One-Zero-Five, do you copy_?"

"This is Sierra One-Zero-Five, we read you Junkyard-Six," snapped Larson as she toggled the thumb switch for the wireless.

Gaines might not be dead, but from what Larson could hear in the background, the Marine Captain had at least found herself back in the middle of one hell-of-a firefight.

"_Junkyard-Six to Sierra One-Zero-Five, I need a CAS mission ASAP._"

Her heart skipping a beat, Larson focused in her attention more intently.

"Go ahead with mission order, Junkyard-Six," replied Larson as she glanced back at Becker, receiving a nod from him indicating that he too was paying close attention.

"_I need direct fire support four hundred meters North-Northwest of my current position. Target; one large aircraft on the ground and troops in the open advancing on our position. Do you copy_?"

"Copy, Junkyard-Six," replied Larson as she again looked back over her shoulder. "Becker?"

"Bringing up eye-in-the-sky now," replied the Weapons Officer as he toggled a few switches on his console.

Reaching over to her own panel, Larson toggled the switch that engaged the forward canopy's large light-enhanced HUD.

"Okay, I've triangulated our peoples' position," called Becker.

"What about the target?"

"I think I've got it."

"You _think_ or you _know_?"

"Take us in lower, I should be able to get better target discrimination on the IR."

"Copy that," replied Larson flatly as she banked the Scimitar into a steep dive.

After a few seconds, Larson again leveled the nimble craft out and began a wide circle.

"Sierra One-Zero-Five to Junkyard-Six, verify one turkey on deck and troops in the open advancing from the base of that hill?" said Becker.

"_That's affirmative Sierra One-Zero-Five, do you have the target_?"

"Beautiful as can be," muttered Becker. "Okay, Sam, I'm switching my feed to your HUD."

Looking up through the canopy, Larson watched as the HUD slaved to the targeting computer began highlighting the craft and several dozen figures in the open plain between Gaines' team and the hill.

"Couldn't make it easier if they were standing still," muttered Larson as she absently licked her lips a bit. "Okay, Junkyard-Six, we see your bad guys, what about the signatures on the actual hilltop?"

"_Negative Sierra One-Zero-Five, believe occupiers of the high ground to be friendlies._"

"Copy that, Six," muttered Larson she brought the Scimitar around on a wide turn towards the optimal attack angle. "Junkyard-Six, this is Sierra One-Zero-Five, we've acquired target, rolling into position, coming in high from the West at your nine o'clock."

"_Be advised, Sierra, we are in serious danger of being overrun, we really need you to make this pass count_," replied Gaines, the distinct rumble of heavy weapons fire echoing in the background. "_Strafing isn't going to cut it, we need some heavy ordnance on target ASAP_."

"Negative, Six," countered Larson. "We drop the frag munitions this close to your position…"

"_If you _don't_ drop them, we won't _have_ a position_," snapped Gaines. "_On my authorization, drop everything you have, danger close, I say again, danger close!_"

"Frak," muttered Larson bitterly as she looked up at the targets on the HUD. "Okay, you heard the lady, Becker, think we can put our rounds on the spot?"

"Margin for error is pretty tight," replied Becker evenly. "The advance element is barely a hundred meters from our own people."

"Then you'd better not miss the bullseye," smiled Larson as nosed the Scimitar into the attack run. "Sierra One-Zero-Five to Six, be advised, we can comply but this could be a little rough for your people."

"_We're already hugging the deck pretty close, Sierra One-Zero-Five_," replied Gaines flatly.

Licking her lips slightly again, Larson pushed the Scimitar's throttles forward a bit.

"Okay, Six, be advised, we're in the glide path, pouring on the speed."

"_Copy that, Sierra One-Zero-Five_," replied Gaines. "_Bring the rain_."

Smiling a bit, Larson steadied the Scimitar into the perfect glide path for the targets on the open plain.

"Okay, let's do this; Becker?"

"Master arm is active, cleared hot for engagement."

As she watched the targets continue to rise up towards her on the forward HUD, the ship on the ground and the mass of troops as clear to her through the light enhancement as if it were mid-day, Larson gently gripped her fingers around the control stick, moving her thumb in over the trigger.

"This is Sierra One-Zero-Five, targets acquired, weapons free, committing."

Pressing her finger down hard over the trigger, Larson throttled up a bit more to steady the ship as the chin-mounted auto-cannon erupted to life.

As the heavy rounds tore through the ship and then through the formation of troops on the ground, Larson held the ship steady as the desert plain streaked by below. A moment later, she felt the stout gunship rock slightly as the underslung ordnance dropped free.

"Weapons away," called Becker. "Get some altitude unless you want some frag up our own ass."

Pulling back hard on the stick, Larson felt the pressure of the mounting G's press her back against her seat as she pointed the nose skyward.

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

As the events around the hill continued to unfold, Captain Nathan West couldn't help but truly wonder just what the hell was going on.

First, the Chig fighters had pinned down his few surviving Marines on the hilltop, softening them up for what he'd been certain would be their last firefight.

Then, as he'd watched the three Chig fighters angle in for what would have been another punishing strafing run on their position, persons-unknown had blown the three craft from the sky.

And now with a full-on firefight taking place on the plain below, West began to hear the unmistakable rumble of engines in the dark skies above.

At first he wondered whether some other Chig craft was about to drop a world of hurt down upon them.

But as he continued to peer out into the darkness, West began to doubt that assessment.

The rumble, whatever it was, didn't sound like anything the Chigs had.

As he continued to search the night sky for the source of the rumble, West caught sight of two faint lights streaking across the sky.

No, not just lights; they were engine contrails; a ship!

Even as that thought registered in his mind, the night air erupted with a new, thunderous drone.

Startled, West stumbled back as the sound of heavy rounds tearing into the Chig transport and then impacting hard dirt and rock echoed out across the hilltop, followed moments later by the thundering rumble of explosions. As a bright flash of light burned out into the night sky, West watched as a sea of fire rolled out along the ground engulfing the plain below and all the Chigs with it.

Still half expecting some horrendous hail of rounds to rip the last shreds of life from him, West was surprised when he instead heard his Marines let out an exalted cry that echoed across the hilltop.

As the light of the devastating explosions below faded, West saw that the craft, wherever the beautiful son-of-a-bitch had come from, had completely ripped the entire Chig position apart. The transport itself lay shattered in several smoldering heaps while scattered across the plain nearby were the torn, shredded, in some cases still-twitching, but in most cases thoroughly charred bodies of the Chig ground troops, the mangled figures strewn about like so many broken toys.

"Yeah, payback motherfuckers!" growled Corporal Wilson as he practically jumped up on top of a boulder.

Looking up, West smiled as he caught sight of the retreating afterburners of the craft that now owned all of his worldly devotion as it rose once again skyward.

* * *

><p><strong>Marine Recon Team<br>Unknown Moon**

Her head pounding a bit, Captain Jordan Gaines felt the distinct taste of dirt in her mouth as she struggled back to consciousness.

"Bowman," she growled as she spit the dirt from her mouth and pushed herself up onto her knees.

Picking up her MGL, Gaines looked out onto the devastated plain in front of her. Groggy and a little disoriented, she felt like she was trying to think through mud. Nevertheless, she still retained enough awareness to know that there might still be a few enemy survivors out there.

"Bowman!" called Gaines again, this time a touch more forcefully.

"Still here," coughed Bowman as he too slowly crawled forward, coming up next to Gaines on top of the dune. "Barely."

"Bit closer than I was expecting," sighed Gaines as she checked her rifle, her head continuing to clear.

"Probably why they included the word 'danger' in danger close, Captain," said Bowman as he reached over and grabbed hold of the MGL lying on the ground beside him.

Looking around, Gaines could see the rest of her Marines lying about on the ground as the dust cloud surrounding them continued to clear up. From the looks of them, like her, they'd been stunned by the heavy concussion of the blasts from the ordnance dropped by the Scimitar.

Forcing herself to her feet, Gaines took a deep breath, then stepped off to check on the rest of the team.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Gaines time and again as she stepped from Marine to Marine.

Most were coughing, a few were clearly dazed, a few could only muster themselves enough to give her a thumbs-up as they peeled themselves from the ground, but at least they were all alive and moving. As each of them slowly pulled themselves back together onto the firing line, weapons in hand, Gaines began making her way back over to Bowman.

By the time she reached him, Bowman seemed to have more or less recovered and was busily scanning the plain for any signs of movement. Dropping back down beside him, Gaines pulled her night vision set back out and looked out through them.

"Hope we never have to do that again," sighed Gaines as she watched for any signs of movement along the plain.

"No argument here, Captain, one more jolt to the system like that, and I'll have to think about mustering out," said Bowman as he continued to look out across at the devastation.

"Too bad for you the Commander instituted a stop-loss," sighed Gaines as she continued to survey the area through the night vision.

Bowman simply chuckled.

After several tense moments of scanning over the devastated plain, Gaines handed the night vision over to Bowman.

"On the bright side, looks like that pass managed to take out both the ship as well as the entire formation," said Gaines as she pulled out her canteen, took a swig of water, swished it around in her mouth, then spit out the remaining amount of dirt and grit.

"Another glorious chapter in the annals of our beloved Colonial Marine Corps," chuckled Bowman as he focused his attention on the hill.

"You see anything on the hill?"

"Looks like the survivors are getting ready to make their way down now," replied Bowman as he handed the night vision back to Gaines. "Whoever they are, they'll probably be coming our way in short order."

"Corporal Bowman, go ahead and get me an ammo check," said Gaines as she watched the activity on the hill.

While Bowman stepped away to take care of the Captain's order, Gaines continued to watch as a couple dozen figures made their way down the hill. Most moved on their own, a few were being aided by others, carried really, but they nevertheless joined up in a group at the base of the hill they'd only minutes before been trapped upon.

"_Junkyard-Six, this is Sierra One-Zero-Five, do you read_?"

It was the Scimitar.

Reaching up, Gaines pressed down on the transmit button for her wireless set.

"This is Six, go ahead Sierra One-Zero-Five."

"_Good to hear your voice_," replied the Scimitar pilot, the relief evident in your voice. "_When you didn't call in your BDA, I was afraid you'd been caught in the blast._"

"Close but not quite," chuckled Gaines as she glanced over at her Marines. "As for the strike, you put it right on the bullseye; one hundred percent effective. That makes two we owe you now, doesn't it?"

"_By our count as well_," chuckled the pilot. "_A round of Ambrosia for my Weaps-O and I should settle the account._"

"I'll see what I can do when we get back to _Galactica_," replied Gaines evenly as she looked back out onto the plain. "Go ahead and pull back onto station to our South for the time being."

"_Copy that, Six, Sierra One-Zero-Five, out._"

As Gaines again lifted the night vision back to her eyes, she could see that the figures that had come down off the hill were still holding their position at the base.

No doubt they were curious as to whom it was that had just ripped up the local real estate as Gaines and her Marines were about _them_.

"_Junkyard-Six, Junkyard-Six, this is Deacon._"

Reaching down, Gaines again toggled the wireless transmit button.

"Send it, Deacon."

"_Be advised, we have reestablished contact with _Galactica_; Actual is requesting position and situation._"

"Relay to _Galactica_-Actual our position and action to date, advise him that we are still trying to ascertain final disposition on the source of the wireless beacon."

"_Copy that Junkyard-Six, will relay per instruction._"

"That answer's not going to hold the Commander for long, Captain," muttered Corporal Bowman as he stepped up, the hand cupped over his ear indicating he'd been listening to the wireless transmission. "Something tells me he's not going to just wait patiently once he learns how much ordnance we just unloaded on this rock."

Looking back over at the cluster of figures at the base of the hill, Gaines let out a long sigh.

"Well, since he's going to want to know _why_, probably be best if we completed the mission he sent us down here for, and I'm betting those survivors have some of the answers we were sent down to this forsaken rock to find."

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>****Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

"Team leaders, get me a head count," called West as he slung his useless rifle over his shoulder. "Don't want to leave anyone behind."

"Are we abandoning our position, Captain?" asked Corporal Wilson as he stepped over and offered up a rifle magazine to West.

Waving off the offered magazine, motioning towards the damage to his weapon's action, West began nodding his head.

"We'd have to be pretty damned foolish to stick around here, Wilson," muttered West as he pulled his sidearm back out, checked the ammo in his last magazine, then slipped it back into its holster. "Three Chig fighters downed, one transport smashed and around sixty of their ground troops spooged out across the ground; you can bet your ass the Chigoes will be back here before long looking for payback."

"About that, Captain; who the hell downed those fighters in the first place?" asked Lance Corporal Bishop, another of the team leaders as he stepped up. "_We_ sure as hell didn't shoot 'em down."

"It was probably those troops we saw tearing up the Chigs from that dune over there," said Corporal Wilson as he motioned over at the small rise a couple hundred meters away.

"But what about that plane that ripped up the Chigs on the ground?" chimed in yet another Marine, Lance Corporal Roberts. "I didn't think anyone in IFOR had anything like that."

"Alright, lock it up, this isn't a townhall meeting," snapped West as he looked out across the barren landscape. "Check your gear, get the wounded ready and prepare to move out."

Whether it was their trained obedience to orders, or the curt tone of West's voice, the surviving Marines nevertheless complied. Collecting up their weapons and gear, they formed up into a hasty defense while they tightened up the straps on their packs, reloaded weapons and helped the injured get ready to move.

As he stood there in the center of the muted activity, West looked out towards the dune again. While he'd been quick to snap his people back to the task of preparing to leave the area, West himself was no less curious, even confounded by the events which had just unfolded.

With an eerie hush settling in over the area, West wondered just who it was that had been firing from the dune. Had they survived the air strike?

Questions, so many questions, and far too little time to answer them.

West knew all too well it wouldn't be long before Chig reinforcements arrived in the area to discern the fate of their comrades. Time was ticking, and all West knew for certain was that they didn't want to be there when the Chigs showed back up.

"Everyone's assembled and ready to move on your order, Captain," said Corporal Wilson as he stepped back over to West.

Taking a deep breath, West continued to scan his eyes in the direction of the dune.

"We'll head out that direction," said West as he pointed out across towards the dune. "With a little luck, maybe we can link up with whoever it is up on the dune. If not, there's a ravine about ten clicks from here we might be able to hole up in, could provide some cover from aerial observation."

"Understood," replied Wilson simply as he motioned for the other Marines to start moving into formation.

"Okay people, we're getting out of here," sighed West as he turned back to his weary Marines. "You know the drill; staggered column formation; since we have no night vision left, try and keep it tight, but stay alert. I want eyes and muzzles outboard, wounded at the center."

As the Marines shuffled into formation, West turned back towards the dune and pulled his sidearm back out.

With West in the lead, the surviving Marines of Fox Two-Twenty-Three set out from the base of the hill towards the dune.

While having their last surviving officer in the lead was contrary to just about every SOP in the book, West had always considered himself more an officer by default, not design; even now he refused to think of any of the Marines around him as any more expendable than he was. Besides, whomever it was up on that dune that had torn up the Chigs and saved their asses, he wanted to be first to meet them so he could shake their hand.

Making their way forward, West nevertheless had difficulty making out shapes in the stifling darkness. Even though the main planet the moon orbited, known simply and unglamorously by IFOR Intel as Gorgon-One-One-Three-Eight-Charlie, was high overhead casting its dull light down upon this miserable stretch of desert, it was still very difficult to discern much against the volcanic rocks that made up the majority of the surface.

But what West and the Marines _could_ see both awed and grimly delighted them; all around the area, the shredded and cooked bodies of the Chigs wiped out in the air strike littered the area.

With weapons ready, they continued on past the bodies, sometimes just parts of bodies, thankful that for once someone had dropped a world of hurt on the enemy instead of them, but nevertheless keenly aware that they still had no idea of just who their rescuers were.

His sidearm in hand, West was stepping past yet another Chig when it suddenly lashed out with one hand and clutched onto his ankle.

In a whirl of movement, West let out a cry, first trying to yank his leg free from the Chig's grip, then mustering himself into a devastating kick with the other that knocked the Chig back, freeing him from its grip. Then, in adrenaline-fueled reflex, West snapped his sidearm up and put three rounds center mass on the Chig's head.

With a sickly gurgling sound, it ceased moving.

Giving the corpse one more derisive, angry kick, West then stepped back and took a couple deep, steadying breaths.

After a few moments, West looked back over at his waiting Marines and motioned for them to once again start moving towards the dune.

A little more wary of the next couple Chig bodies he passed, even the ones that had limbs blown clean off, West nevertheless continued forward towards the dune.

Glancing up at the dune every so often, West still couldn't see anything significant ahead, not even with the flickering fire from the shattered Chig craft or the planet overhead casting its dull light.

But what he couldn't _see_, West soon realized, he _could_ hear.

Reflexively bringing his sidearm up a little, he listened in more intently, trying to discern between what might be the sound of the Marines moving behind him, and what might still be lurking out ahead of them.

And that was when he heard it.

Low, unintelligible, but also unmistakable; a voice.

No, a couple voices.

Chigs didn't talk, at least, he'd never heard them talk, not like humans did anyway; simply used that God-damned clicking-choking-gurgling sound.

AI's sometimes talked, but they also had a telltale electronic chirp from their wireless modems to give them away.

Straining to listen, West heard neither.

But he didn't relax his posture any either.

Nathan West liked to think he'd survived the war thus far through his merits, or at least, by not being overtly stupid.

Glancing back over his shoulder, West could see by the expressions of the Marines directly behind him that they too could hear the voices up ahead. Moreover, a few seemed to be reflexively pointing their weapons towards the voices, uncertainty creasing their worn features.

Perhaps they were being just a bit jumpy, but after weeks of intermittent close-quarters combat and near-constant retreat he couldn't fault them for that. Someone using equipment with which they were unfamiliar had just blasted three Chig fighters, an accompanying transport and over five dozen enemy infantry right to hell.

Anyone worth their salt on the battlefield would tell you that was no small feat.

And anyone who killed the enemy on such a scale was owed no small favor.

But considering everything else that had taken place during the war, the disappointments and deceptions, they couldn't afford to just take it for granted that anyone up ahead was a friendly by default.

Assumptions had filled a lot of body-bags in the past.

Looking back out towards the dune, West took another step forward and then suddenly felt his heart rate skyrocket.

Against the vague outline of the volcanic horizon, he could see the outline of several figures on top of the dune.

Throwing up his hand, West brought the formation to a halt.

"Corporal Wilson?" he whispered, his eyes not leaving the outline of the figures up ahead.

"Captain?" asked Wilson simply as he stepped up beside West, his eyes likewise locked on the figures up ahead.

"Everyone take a knee, hold here, I'm going to check up ahead," said West evenly as he watched a couple of the figures move along the dune.

"Maybe I should go, Captain," offered Wilson as he slowly brought the muzzle of his rifle up.

"You heard me, Corporal," said West simply as he slowly reached out and pushed Wilson's muzzle back down. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, swing wide of that dune and make for the ravine."

"Aye, Captain."

As Corporal Wilson and the rest of his Marines kneeled in place, West began flexing his fingers around the grip of the sidearm as he continued making his way towards the dune.

With each tentative step, West made his way forward. His eyes still locked on the shadows, West realized that while most of the figures on the top of the dune were still holding their place, two of the figures had begun slowly making their way towards him.

"Okay, whoever you are, I'm all alone," he whispered, his boots crunching on the small rocks that littered the ground.

Before long, the two figures that had come down off the dune towards West had moved in close enough that West could hear their boots crunching on the ground as well, but still not close enough for him to make out any features.

Chigs?

A.I.'s?

His flippin' imagination?

Pausing, West slowly lifted the muzzle of his sidearm

"Halt and identify yourself!" he said evenly as he aimed in center mass on one of the figures.

Both instantly stopped.

"I said identify yourself immediately or I _will_ open fire!"

Nothing.

"Captain!"

It was Wilson.

"Hold your position, Corporal," snapped West as he continued to look out at the figures in the darkness ahead.

"Understood!" replied Wilson warily.

For a few tense moments, West kept his eyes and the muzzle of his sidearm on the figures. He could hear them whispering but couldn't make out what they were saying. And then, he heard the sound of crunching footsteps begin again; one of the figures was coming closer.

"Don't move," he growled, his unwavering aim directly center mass.

But the figure didn't stop.

"I said _halt_!"

Then, through the darkness, West saw a flash of red light.

But it was not directed at him.

In the low red light, West instead saw a face staring back at him.

Standing perfectly still only a few meters in front away was a woman in combat gear with a flashlight shining directly onto her own face.

"Name, rank, unit ident, now!" warned West, his aim never wavering.

Slowly, the woman began shaking her head slightly, an almost perplexed look on her face.

Damn, just what West needed; a language barrier.

* * *

><p><strong>Marine Recon Team<br>Unknown Moon**

Captain Jordan Gaines stood there, heart racing, her flashlight aimed squarely on her own face, desperate to show the visibly tired, worn and suspicious man with a sizeable pistol aimed at her that she meant him no harm.

Of course, it didn't help that she couldn't understand a single word coming out of his mouth.

True, Corporal Bowman was only a few meters behind her, doubtless with rifle at the ready, more than prepared to rip the man in front of her apart if he did anything crazy, still Gaines wasn't very keen on the idea of dying today, not when she felt she was close to finding the source of the wireless signal they'd come to find.

Once again, the man screamed out at her.

Slowly, Gaines shook her head.

How the hell could she get this man to understand when she couldn't talk to him?

Taking a deep breath, Gaines slowly held out her hand.

The man twitched a bit, but nevertheless simply watched Gaines as she slowly brought her hand up to her own collar.

Very carefully, Gaines pulled her uniform shirt collar out from underneath her body armor, gently slipping her fingers in around the rank pin fastened to it. Tilting her flashlight slightly, Gaines held the collar and pin so the light shone down upon it.

"I am Captain Jordan Gaines," she said slowly.

The man simply stood there for a moment, looking at her, then at her collar.

She felt a bit foolish, but it was the only way she could think of to try and establish some sort of understanding.

"Captain," said Gaines, gently tapping the collar pin as she did so.

Gaines then gently tapped her other hand against her own chest.

"Jordan Gaines."

For a moment, Gaines truly wondered if she was getting through in any way.

Then, to her profound relief, the man slowly began lowering his pistol, straightening up, relaxing his posture. Then, taking a deep breath, the man gently nodded his head.

As the man continued to lower the muzzle of his weapon, he too slowly reached up, and like Gaines, reached in under his body armor, pulled out his collar, and held up what Gaines presumed was his own rank pin.

"_Captain,_" said the man.

Then, as Gaines had done, the man then tapped his hand against his own chest.

"Nathan West."

Nodding her head, Gaines smiled a bit.

Now what?

Clearing her throat, Gaines motioned with her head back over her shoulder.

"Over there," she began. "I have twelve more people."

To emphasize, or more accurately, to try and _convey_ what it was she was trying to say, Gaines pointed over her shoulder, then held up all ten of her fingers, then two fingers, then pointed back over her shoulder again.

"We," she continued, making an exaggerated circular motion over her shoulder. "We shot down the ships from overhead."

Gaines then pointed to the sky, and as ridiculous as she felt, went 'boom, boom, boom' at the sky.

Thankfully, the man seemed to understand, gently nodding.

Relaxing his posture even more, the man stepped forward, and slowly extended his hand to Gaines.

This, Gaines felt, she understood.

Taking hold of the man's hand, Gaines gave it a firm couple of shakes.

"_Thanks_," said the man.

Though she didn't understand the word itself, Gaines thought she at least understood the sentiment.

"You're welcome," smiled Gaines.

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

"I was getting worried, Captain," muttered Corporal Wilson as he let out a long, relieved sigh.

He had only just gotten back up on his feet when Wilson realized that Captain West wasn't alone.

Reflexively snapping his rifle up, Wilson dropped back down to one knee.

"Stand down, Corporal!" snapped West, throwing up a hand. "These people were the ones who took out the Chigoes for us."

"Well, fuck, too bad we don't have some hooch on this rock," muttered Corporal Wilson as he slowly stood back up. "Taking out that many Chigs deserves a drink or three."

Then, as the thirteen other figures accompanying West stepped even closer, Wilson gave them a quick look over.

"What unit are you guys from?" asked Wilson, unable to recognize their uniforms.

Taking a deep breath, West looked back over his shoulder at the new arrivals.

"Save it, Wilson," he said evenly. "We've apparently got ourselves a bit of a language barrier."

At that, Wilson began gently shaking his head.

"Shit can never be simple, can it, Captain?" he said simply.

"Murphy's Law, Marine," huffed West as he continued to eye their unexpected visitors.

For his part, West didn't have any more idea who they were than Wilson, their uniforms and insignia were from no IFOR nation he'd ever encountered, and he'd served alongside troops from almost every nation in the United Nations unified command.

Nevertheless, from the sheer number of Chig bodies lying about the area, he had to admit they did seem to know their business when it came to combat.

Even now, as his own Marines waited, tired and ragged, little more than gaggling about in a loose perimeter, these guys had spread themselves into a tight defensive circle and were diligently scanning the surrounding the area with their eyes.

Looking over, West saw the woman who'd made contact with him, Gaines if he'd heard her correctly, talking to what West presumed was one of her subordinates. After a few moments, the man she'd been talking to nodded his head and stepped away, going around to each of the other members of the Gaines' team.

Within moments, the man stepped back over to Gaines carrying a duffel bag, handing it over to the woman. Gaines then stepped over to West, smiled, then motioned over at West's exhausted Marines. Gaines then pointed over at another person in her team, a young woman wearing an armband, then back over at some of West's wounded Marines. While West may not have been able to speak their language, he felt he understood the meaning behind the simple red cross on the woman's armband.

A medic.

West nodded.

With that, the woman with the armband snatched up a pack and made her way over to West's wounded, immediately setting about the task of looking over their injuries.

As the medic worked, Gaines stepped up to West and extended to him the bag she'd been given by the subordinate. As West took hold of it, Gaines handed him a flashlight and nodded for him to look inside.

Casting the light down into the bag, West saw a small pile of what looked like canteens inside the bag. Glancing up, West saw Gaines making a tilting motion with her hand and understood.

They were indeed canteens.

Nodding gratefully, West handed her back the flashlight as he took a firmer hold on the bag.

"Wilson, get your butt over here," said West as turned back to his Marines.

As Wilson stepped up, West handed the bag over to him.

"Canteens; spread them around."

"Aye, Captain," replied Wilson enthusiastically as he reached inside and pulled one out.

As West watched Wilson step away to begin handing out the collection of canteens, Gaines pulled a small electronic device from her gear and held it up for West to see.

As West looked down at the device, Gaines held it up, pointing at the small display screen, then up at the hill they'd been defending.

For a moment, perplexed, West simply looked at Gaines, shaking his head slightly.

Taking a deep breath, Gaines motioned over at her team, then at the display again, then began moving the small device around a bit, making of all things a ridiculous 'beeping' noise as she did so.

"It's a locator?" muttered West, nodding his head slightly, then snapping his fingers. "Damn, that's right; the ELB."

Quickly patting down several of the pouches on his gear, West found, then pulled out the Emergency Locator Beacon he was carrying. With a slight grimace, he realized that the device was already turned on.

"Damn, that must be how the Chigs found us," he groaned, shaking his head slightly over not having figured out as much sooner.

Nevertheless, he held up the ELB to the device in Gaines' hand, the woman turning on her own device, the display practically squealing as she did so. As both Gaines and West looked down at the indicator on the screen, they saw that it was indeed pointing directly at the ELB.

Nodding her head, Gaines then put her locator device back in one of her pockets.

"Well, now we know how you found us," sighed West as he stood there looking at his proverbial counterpart. "Now what?"

* * *

><p><strong>Marine Recon Team<br>Unknown Moon**

Captain Gaines took a deep, slightly satisfying breath.

While direct communication with the man, apparently named West if she'd heard him correctly, was still, at best, being made in baby steps, Gaines was starting to feel somewhat hopeful.

"What's the story, Captain?" asked Bowman as he stepped up beside Gaines.

"Well, that device he has is definitely the source of the wireless signal we picked up," said Gaines as she glanced over at Corporal Peters, the medic herself still engrossed in assessing the wounded. "I guess you can call that a 'mission accomplished'."

"But the million credit question becomes 'what now'?" countered Bowman as he casually looked out towards the horizon.

"Well, at least we're not shooting at one another," sighed Gaines, grinning a bit. "That's a start, I suppose."

As Bowman chuckled a bit, Gaines heard her wireless headset crackle to life.

"_Junkyard-Six, Junkyard-Six; this is _Galactica_-Actual_."

Glancing at one another, Gaines and Bowman both took in a deep breath.

"He doesn't sound happy," muttered Bowman.

Motioning with her head for Bowman to step away, Gaines took another deep breath, hesitating for a moment. While it was arguable that she had in fact accomplished the mission the Commander had sent them down on, indeed, accomplished it with zero casualties, Gaines couldn't help but feel as though the other proverbial shoe was about to drop on her. As ridiculous as it might have seemed, Gaines almost felt like a child who knew they were in _deep_ trouble.

Tentatively reaching her hand up, as much to keep from making sudden movements in front of the still visibly cagey West, Gaines pressed down on the wireless transmit button.

"This is Junyard-Six," began Gaines, forcing a calm into her voice she did not actually feel. "Go ahead, _Galactica_-Actual."

"_Junkyard-Six, what is your current status_?" asked Commander Kelso evenly.

"Our status, sir?" asked Gaines almost coyly as she looked over at West and his beleaguered troops.

"_Affirmative, Junkyard-Six, your current status_," replied the Commander firmly. "_I sent you down there on a recon run to locate the source of a wireless signal. Now I'm being told that you called Sierra One-Zero-Five in on a CAS run. While I'll try and reserve judgment for the moment, I would at least appreciate the courtesy of being brought into the loop on exactly what it was you had blasted to hell_."

A firm, even tone; long, precise grammar.

Yeah, Gaines felt like a kid in trouble.

Time to play her high card.

"First and foremost, Actual, I'm pleased to report we're located the source of the wireless signal," grinned Gaines as she stood looking at West and his troops.

"_And what did you find; what's down there_?"

"Short answer, sir?"

"_Very short, Junkyard-Six._"

"Approximately three dozen survivors, sir," replied Gaines flatly, grinning a bit.

There was a long pause.

"_What do you mean by 'survivors', Junkyard-Six_?" asked Kelso, the edge ebbing from his tone.

"We have made contact with thirty-three human soldiers here on the surface, sir."

Again, another long pause.

"Did you copy my last, Actual?" asked Gaines lightly, her initial hesitation having dissolved into light amusement over the muted reaction she was now getting from the Commander.

"_Actual copies, Six, you've located human survivors_," replied Commander Kelso, letting out what she clearly recognized as an almost resigned sigh. "_What would you like to do next_?"

"Well, sir, if I may suggest, we should evacuate them up from the surface," began Gaines as she once more looked over at the surviving soldiers. "They have wounded needing medical attention, and judging by the looks of them, I'd guess they've been trapped down here for some time, been through some pretty heavy action."

"_You want to bring them up to here…to _Galactica?"

"Affirmative, sir," replied Gaines evenly. "Like you said, you sent my team and I down here on a recon mission, to find some answers. With respect, doesn't the Commander think it would be easier getting those answers from living survivors instead of wreckage?"

"_Point taken_," sighed Commander Kelso evenly. "_How many extra birds do you need for a full extraction_?"

"The two Raptors we have on station will be able to bring my team back up, but we could use five more for the rest of this group, and some more medics as well to treat them while we transit back up to _Galactica_."

"_You've got 'em_," replied Kelso flatly. "_Expect them to be on the deck in approximately thirty mikes_."

"Copy that, Actual," smiled Gaines, feeling very much pleased with herself.

"_But, you'd better be prepared to give me one hell-of-a detailed after-action report when your boots are back on the deck_," continued Kelso, the slightest edge, however veiled, slipping back into his tone. "_Is that understood_?"

"Copy that, Actual."

As the wireless channel closed, Gaines looked over at Bowman, a coy smile creasing his lips.

"You look like you've got something to say, Bowman," said Gaines evenly.

"Just couldn't help but notice you didn't mention our little 'communication barrier' to the Commander, Captain," said Bowman evenly.

"Like the Commander himself always says, 'we'll take this one step at a time'," countered Gaines evenly as her team's medic, Corporal Jenna Peters stepped back over from assessing the wounded.

"What's the story, doc?"

"Two serious GSW's, one to the shoulder, one in the abdomen, missed the liver but he's gonna need surgery, and soon," began Peters as she glanced back over at the tired men. "I've dressed their wounds, but we really need to get some evac birds down here."

"Already on the way; what about the rest?"

"Abrasions, superficial lacs mostly, dehydration, some early stage malnutrition," finished Peters. "Rationing aside, I don't think there's a one of them who's had as much to eat in a _month_ as we get in a single _meal_."

"Alright, good work, Peters," sighed Gaines as she looked back over at West. "Keep an eye on the worst off till the evac Raptors get here."

"Aye, Captain."

As Peters stepped back over to continue tending to the wounded, Gaines stepped closer to West.

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

Captain Nathan West had simply stood there while the Gaines carried on her conversation with the female medic.

While he still didn't understand a word of what they were saying, West presumed it was simply a field report on the status of the wounded. As the medic stepped back over to continue tending to his injured Marines, Gaines slowly stepped back up to West.

As she stepped up to him, Gaines smiled, then pointed at the earpiece wrapped around her right ear. She then pointed at her collar, and then up at the stars overhead.

Rudimentary as the communication was, West thought he was getting the gist of what Gaines was trying to convey.

She'd spoken with her CO.

She then made a motion with her hands, starting with them lying flat, palm down above her head and then slowly moving them down as she made a whistling sound.

West mimicked the movement, nodding his head; Gaines had called in some ships.

West in turn pointed over at his Marines.

The young woman nodded, making a wide motion with her hands towards all of them, then began making the whistling sound once more as she moved her flat hand up, then pointed towards the stars overhead.

"What's going on, Captain?" asked Corporal Wilson as he stepped up beside West.

"Well, unless I'm way off in my understanding, they're gonna take us off this rock," replied West evenly.

"What, there's a ship in orbit?"

"That would be my guess, otherwise, how did _they_ get here?" muttered West somewhat sarcastically. "They look way too clean and well fed to have been here as long as we have."

Nodding his head, Wilson let out a long, tired breath as he turned and made his way back over to his fire team, flopping down on the ground beside them as they passed him one of the canteens.

Looking back over at Gaines, West smiled.

Small talk was hard when you only had rudimentary hand gestures and improvised sound effects as the basis for getting a message across.

But as West stood there, Gaines motioned over towards her own team. Following Gaines' gesture, West watched as she then pointed over at his own tired Marines, making a wide circular motion.

Gaines wanted to put her people in a perimeter around West's Marines.

West took a deep breath while he considered it.

United States Marines didn't generally like asking for 'help'; a bit of collective service pride.

But facts were facts; his people were worn, ragged, bloodied and nearly out of ammo.

Gaines' people were fresh, rested and most decidedly well armed; three downed fighters, a shattered transport and sixty dead Chigoe infantry left little doubt of that.

West nodded his head.

Snapping her fingers, Gaines looked back over at her subordinate, said a few quick words and motioned for her people to form up into a loose circle around West's people.

With Gaines' people settling in around the area, West began making his way around to his Marines. He mostly chatted it up with them, traded a few jokes, even a few dreadful ones he hadn't heard before. But through it all, by their tones, by their demeanor, there was an undercurrent of suspicion he detected from them.

After two years of brutal warfare, outright trust was a hard-earned commodity.

Such overt helpfulness on the part of Gaines and her people left his Marines paradoxically wary, especially when they dressed, were armed and were supported by craft with which they had absolutely no familiarity.

Truth be told, West wasn't entirely comfortable himself, especially considering the language barrier. But since his only options seemed to be either trusting in Gaines and her goodwill or staying on this forsaken rock and eventually being hunted down by the Chigs, West was willing to make a leap of faith for the sake of the men under his command

As West was finishing with checking up on his two wounded Marines, Private Jackson and Lance Corporal O'Malley, he began hearing a low rumble from overhead.

His heart skipping a beat, West's hand snapped to his holstered sidearm as his eyes began scanning the sky.

It was then that Gaines stepped back over to him, pointing first towards the rumble overhead and then patting her own chest.

Okay; whatever was coming down belonged to Gaines.

Nodding his head, West relaxed a bit, his eyes nevertheless continuing to search overhead for the source of the rumble. After a few moments more, seven small ships similar to the one he'd seen tear up the Chigs settled down on the ground nearby.

Almost as soon as the ships touched the ground, hatches on the side opened up, disgorging half a dozen more personnel dressed similarly to Gaines and her people, each one with an armband similar to Gaines' medic. At Gaines' direction, the new arrivals made their way quickly over to West's wounded Marines, lowering a couple stretchers to the deck and quickly moving the wounded Marines onto them.

As West watched his wounded get loaded onto the stretchers, Gaines stepped back up to him. Looking over, West watched as Gaines motioned for him to gather up his Marines and begin moving them over to the ships.

West nodded.

"Alright Marines, time to get the hell off this rock," snapped West as he began motioning for him to people to get to their feet.

"Captain, can I talk to you for a second?"

"What is it, Corporal Wilson?"

Stepping up to West, Corporal Wilson kept casting a wary eye back over at Gaines and her people while they began guiding the Marines towards the waiting craft.

"No disrespect, but is this really a wise idea?" whispered Wilson. "I mean, we don't know these people. Hell, we can't even _talk_ to them."

Watching the activity himself, West took a long breath.

"Let me tell you something, Wilson," sighed West as he continued to watch the activity. "Before this damned war started I was slated to join the Tellus colony with a group of people drawn from all different walks of life. The one big lesson I learned from that experience is that people don't have to look, talk, or sometimes even act like you do for their hospitality to be genuine."

"I hope you're right, Captain," sighed Wilson, shaking his head slightly.

"Go get our people together," said West as he gave Wilson's shoulder a quick slap.

With that, West watched his Marines form up and begin making their way towards the waiting ships. A moment later, Gaines stepped up and began leading West over towards one of the lead ships. Stepping up, West could see that though it was much smaller than an ISSCV, it seemed a good deal more rugged.

Making his way up onto the winglet, with more help from Gaines than he'd expected he'd need, West casually looked back to see how his Marines were doing, but caught sight of a couple of Gaines' people making their way back out of the darkness with a stretcher. While it was still relatively dark, West could nevertheless make out a body on the stretcher, encased in a body bag.

While he knew it was possible that Gaines' might have had a KIA of her own, West had seen enough Chigs, dead and alive, to recognize the outline of one even inside a body bag.

With all the Chigs killed in this war, why were they bothering to load this one?

When he felt a tap on his shoulder, West looked back at Gaines.

Holding up her own weapon, Gaines made a very deliberate show of unloading it, then motioned over at West's Marines, then at the radio boom West was wearing.

Nodding, West reached down and pressed the transmit switch for his squad radio.

"This is Captain West; make sure to unload all weapons, I say again, clear all weapons; we don't want to accidentally blow any holes in our rescue rides."

As the series of acknowledgements came back in over the squad-tac, West stepped down from the winglet into the ship's cabin. While the craft was relatively small by comparison to a Marine Corps dropship, the interior cabin was surprisingly roomy.

As West slowly lowered himself down to the floor of the cabin, along with Corporal Wilson and three other Marines, West watched Gaines make her way forward to the ship's pilot.

As the entry hatch lowered back to its closed position, West heard the ship's engines begin to spin-up.

Content to take the opportunity to get a bit of rest; God only knew and he himself couldn't even begin to guess the last time he'd really had a chance to sleep; West leaned back against the craft's bulkhead and slowly closed his eyes. In fact, it felt so good to actually close his eyes, West tried to drift off as the small ship rocked around him as it began its ascent.

Even with his eyes closed and as groggy as his thoughts felt, West was nevertheless able to feel the pull of the g-forces; the ship was making a rapid ascent.

Much more rapid than an ISSCV…

His eyes closed, West nevertheless smiled slightly; small and fast; whoever these ships belonged to, as a pilot, he had to admit he was impressed.

As he felt the gentle rocking of the ship's climb through the atmosphere, West could almost convince himself he was being rocked to sleep. Trouble was, West quickly realized he was so tired, too tired, to even sleep, just drift at the edge of consciousness.

First respite in months and he was facing a bout with insomnia?

Before long, even the gentle rocking ceased, presumably because the ship had finally passed out of the moon's atmosphere.

As he continued to simply listen to the gentle rumble of the ship's engines, West felt someone begin gently shaking his shoulder.

Opening his eyes, annoyed, West found himself looking at Corporal Wilson.

"What is it, Wilson?" muttered West, his annoyance clear in his tone.

For a moment, Wilson hesitated, moving his lips, about to say something, but finally ended up just pointing out past the forward canopy.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, West reached up, grabbed onto a handful of the cargo netting hanging on the bulkhead and pulled himself forward enough to look out the canopy.

And as he caught sight of what it was Wilson wanted him to see, West could only muster one response.

"Holy _shit_," he muttered.

"Would you look at the _size_ of that motherfucker?" muttered Wilson, the power of speech finally returning to him, however crass.

Their attention thoroughly captivated, West and Wilson watched as the small ship angled in towards the largest damned ship either of them had ever seen.

"She makes a _Kennedy_ look like a fucking toy," muttered Wilson, the naked disbelief evident in his tone.

As West sat there, awestruck, he caught site of Gaines looking back him from one of the pilot seats up front. She was grinning slightly, obviously enjoying the dumbfounded look on West's face. Gaines then held up her hands, holding them palm inwards, moving them slowly apart then motioning her head out towards the big ship.

West nodded as Gaines sat there chuckling slightly.

"Yes, you guys have a _big_ ship," whispered West.

As he continued to watch Gaines, the woman's face suddenly froze, her smile quickly fading. As she turned back towards the front, West couldn't miss the abrupt change in Gaines' demeanor. Moreover, the actions of the ship's flight crew changed as well, becoming more deliberate, rushed.

Wilson hadn't missed the change either, gently tapping on West's shoulder as he pointed up at the pilot pulled back on what West surmised were the ship's throttles.

As Gaines and the pilot in the front seat continued to chat rapidly back and forth, West still had no idea what it was they were actually saying, but there was an urgency in their movements that he was able to read clear as day.

Something was wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <em>Galactica<em>  
>Combat Information Center<strong>

"I say again, Action Stations, Action Stations; set Condition One throughout the ship; this is not a drill. Section heads report to Combat upon manning of Action Stations."

As the sound of Lieutenant Cortez's voice echoed through the CIC from the overhead speakers, Commander Sean Kelso stood firmly in place below the DRADIS display, arms crossed, attention keenly focused on the screens.

On one half of the screen, the seven Raptors and lone Scimitar were angling in for landing aboard the _Galactica_.

On the other side of the screen, the myriad of unknown contacts that had prompted the alert were emerging from a DRADIS shadow on the far side of the moon.

"Report, Mr. Cortez," snapped Major Burke as she leaned in somewhat hawkishly over the main plot table.

"Multiple unknown contacts coming in from the far side, Major," replied Cortez instantly as he leaned in towards his display. "Contacts are coming in fast, CBDR, estimate fifteen minutes to weapons range."

"Presuming their weapons have similar range limitations as our own," muttered Kelso evenly as he watched the contacts continue to emerge from the far side. "Any idea what we're looking at, Lieutenant?"

"Based on readings, Commander, I'd say we have three capital-grade vessels complemented by well over a hundred escort fighters, but all of unknown configuration."

"I wouldn't necessarily call them capital-grade," muttered Burke as she motioned up at the three largest contacts on the screen. "They barely mass one-half the _Galactica_ put together."

"Don't have to be big to inflict big damage, Major," countered Kelso evenly as he glanced across the table at her. "We have no idea of their weapons or capabilities."

For Kelso's part, as he watched the ships coming around from the far side of the moon, his mind kept recalling the fate of the other unknown ship which had brought them to this system in the first place, the shattered vessel whose debris was scattered across the outskirts of the star system.

"Time till our birds are back on the deck?" asked Kelso evenly.

"CAP is already in the landing pattern," replied Burke as she glanced over and verified the approach of the Raptors and Scimitar. "Retrieval birds are about eight minutes out, Commander; we should have some time to spare."

"I'm not counting on that," sighed Kelso as he glanced over to Lieutenant Cortez. "Start spinning up the FTL and plot me a jump back to the rest of our fleet."

"Aye, Commander," replied Cortez as he jumped up and quickly made his way over to the jump computer.

"Commander, if I may, this might be a good opportunity to gain some intel on their capabilities," offered Major Burke.

As he continued to watch both his own birds and the unknown contacts close in on _Galactica_, Kelso mulled over Burke's suggestion. It did have merit, especially since he had little doubt that they'd be encountering them again.

Nevertheless…

"One step at a time, Major," sighed Kelso finally as he returned his attention to the closing Raptors. "Let's find out what Captain Gaines learned on the surface first. Until we know more, I'm reluctant to risk an engagement when we don't have to."

"Understood, Commander," replied Burke evenly as she returned her attention to the screens overhead. "Six minutes till all our ships are aboard."

"Lieutenant Cortez, status of our jump prep?" prodded Kelso, his eyes not leaving the DRADIS.

"FTL cores spun and synch'd, Commander," replied Cortez. "Setting jump coordinates for the fleet now."

Taking a deep breath, Kelso leaned forward, his fingers gently drumming the surface of the plot table as he began mentally ticking off the remaining seconds in his head.

They had a pretty comfortable time margin in which to jump away before the unknown contacts closed range, provided that the range of their weapons were on par with _Galactica_.

But if they weren't…

For several tense moments, Kelso kept his eyes locked on the flight deck camera as the line of Raptors and the lone Scimitar gracefully lined up single-file for a landing on the Port flight pod. Racing ahead, they all executed a precision turn at nearly the same time, the line breaking up as each craft settled in over a separate lift down to the hangar deck.

More like a flight demonstration than a combat landing…

"Jump prep?" snapped Kelso as he watched the last Raptor lock into place over a lift pad.

"Coordinates set," replied Cortez instantly.

Taking one last look at the unknown contacts, Kelso took a deep breath.

"Initiate jump, Lieutenant."

Acknowledging the order, Cortez rattled off a rapid countdown. As Cortez reached zero, the _Galactica_ was enveloped in the energetic field released from her FTL cores.

In an instant, the moon, the closing contacts, all of it, were all gone.

Within the blink of an eye, the DRADIS display overhead changed before Kelso's eyes, the unknown contacts replaced by the IFF verified contacts of their own refugee fleet.

As he stood there watching the system tag each icon with each ship's identification, Kelso chuckled slightly to himself.

Strange; he'd always heard that repeated exposure to FTL jumps lessened the effects of a jump on human perceptions, but until that moment, where his awareness was little more than the change on the DRADIS display, not the overwhelming vertigo, he hadn't really thought about it. Guess it was true.

Taking a breath, Kelso looked up at the screen which now showed the fleet of civilian and military ships that were under his charge.

Even as they themselves aboard _Galactica_ were still picking up the pieces, literally and proverbially, of the puzzle they'd stumbled across, how would the rest of the fleet handle what they'd only just begun to learn?

Between the debris, the nuclear signature, the nascent reports of Gaines engagement and finding of survivors, the answer would seem to be just one thing; a war.

They'd literally run away from a war six months ago.

And now, after wandering through an unknown wilderness, they seemed to have stumbled across another.

Worse still, they'd possibly stumbled into a war about which they knew practically nothing.

How would he explain it to the fleet?

How would they react to it?

The questions running through his mind must have translated to a questioning look on his face, for as these thoughts were passing through the Commander's mind, Kelso heard Burke's voice prodding him back from his concerns.

"Something wrong, Commander?" she asked, looking at him somewhat quizzically.

Forcing himself to grin, Kelso looked across the plot table to Burke.

"Guess I'm not used to coming out on the upside of events like that," he said simply. "Almost felt too easy."

"I kind of enjoyed not having to make a jump in the midst of a bone-jarring missile barrage, Commander," grinned Burke as she returned her attention to the overhead DRADIS.

"Can't argue with you there, Major," shrugged Kelso as he continued to mull over what to tell the fleet. "Still…"

Tapping his fingers against the plot table, Commander Kelso finally waved away his own lingering concerns for the moment. Letting out a long breath, Kelso looked over to Lieutenant Cortez.

"Mr. Cortez, have all the ships from the surface been secured?"

"Hangar deck reports they're locking down the last Raptor now, sir."

"Very good," began Kelso as he gave the plot table a gentle thump with his hand, turned, and began making his way towards the entryway. "Major Burke, go ahead and make contact and obtain status checks with the rest of the fleet, military and civilian."

"Do you want me to have the other ship commanders assemble aboard _Galactica_?" asked Burke as she slowly picked up the handset on her side of the plot table.

"Not yet," replied Kelso curtly as he made his way towards the entryway.

"So what do you want me to tell them?" asked Burke flatly. "We're back hours _ahead_ of schedule; they're going to ask why."

Pausing midstride, Kelso barely glanced back over his shoulder at Burke.

"Tell them…" he began, pausing, pondering.

As much as he hated it, as much as he wrestled with it, for the moment, Kelso could think of only one response.

"Tell them to standby," he finally said. "For now; need-to-know only, and they don't need to know, at least not until we have something substantial to actually tell them."

"Understood, sir," replied Burke dubiously.

Picking up on the tone in Burke's voice, Kelso finally looked back over at her. She wasn't pleased with relaying his answer. Truth be told, he wasn't pleased with having to give it. But right now they knew too little, and the rumor mill worked best and came up with the worst gossip the scarcer hard facts were.

The last thing he wanted or could afford to have happen was for the civilian refugees to be whipped into a panicked frenzy over haphazard innuendo.

"But," sighed Kelso as he glanced back up at his fleet on the DRADIS. "Advise all ship commanders, even the civilians, to be ready at a moment's notice for action."

"What kind of action, sir?" asked Burke, now clearly perplexed at the Commander's rather nebulous statement.

"Just tell them to be ready for anything at a moment's notice," said Kelso as he rapidly stepped out through the entryway. "I'll be on the hangar deck."

Watching him go, Major Burke simply watched Kelso disappear off into the corridor, confused, perplexed.

She had a thousand questions, but she was bound above all else to follow his orders.

"Understood, Commander," she sighed even though Kelso was long gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Fox Company<br>Second Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines**

"And I thought she was big from the outside," muttered Corporal Wilson in nothing short of complete awe as he stepped down off the winglet onto the deck.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Captain Nathan West likewise stepped down off the winglet and looked around at the massive hangar facility. Stretching off to either side of him, the space was enormous, far larger than any other hangar facility aboard any carrier he'd ever seen. Hell, the hangar deck _alone_ seemed bigger than any carrier he'd ever seen.

It was as he continued to marvel at the sheer size of the space that West caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of Wilson slowly dropping to his knees, leaning down, and planting an audible kiss on the deck.

Staring at him rather dubiously, West began slowly shaking his head.

But West quickly realized he wasn't the only one who had noticed Wilson's unusual display of affection. From behind, West heard Gaines chuckle slightly, and several other personnel, flight deck crew presumably, had also taken note.

"Get the hell back on your feet, Corporal," muttered West as he watched a couple of the hangar crew wandering away, clearly perplexed. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."

But even as Wilson complied, West noticed that the attention being paid to him and his Marines hadn't really subsided. Indeed, even as West and his Marines huddled back up after disembarking from the ships, still more of the hangar deck personnel began assembling at the periphery, kept mostly at bay by Gaines and her people, but nevertheless paying West and his people a higher degree of attention than seemed warranted.

"You'd think they'd never seen US Marines before," muttered Wilson evenly as he looked around at the gathering crowd.

"You noticed that too?" replied West as he continued to watch the curious looks on the faces around them.

Strange.

No, 'strange' didn't do this situation justice, it was borderline creepy.

As he continued to look around past the gathering crowd, West saw that the ships that had brought them up from the surface weren't the only ones with which he was unfamiliar. Stretching off into the distance, large work bays set on one side of the hangar were filled with other ships, tri-wing planes, with which he was equally unfamiliar.

Who the hell were these people?

Even as this thought continued to bounce around in his consciousness, West caught sight of Gaines off to one side of the hangar deck speaking with an older man. Unlike the plain black combat uniforms Gaines and her people wore, this man was dressed in a blue uniform, like everything else it seemed, a uniform design with which he was completely unfamiliar.

French maybe?

No, if they were French, someone around here would be able to speak English.

While he still had no grasp whatsoever on whatever language they were speaking, West could tell by the way that Gaines kept motioning over in their direction that she was talking to him about West and his Marines. Before long, with Gaines at his side, the man began making his way over.

Coming to a stop near West, the man seemed to hesitate for a moment, clearly full of questions, but unsure how to even begin trying to ask those questions.

After a few uncomfortable moments wherein West and the man simply stood there staring at one another, evaluating each other, Gaines cleared her throat and stepped a bit closer.

Looking over at Gaines, West watched as the woman once again reached up, grabbing hold of her uniform collar, holding out the diamond-shaped insignia, then holding her hand out about chest high.

Gaines then pointed over at the somewhat more ornate insignia on the man's collar, then held her hand up above her head.

Nodding his head, West felt he understood.

"So this is your CO," he muttered as he looked back over at the man.

Quickly pantomiming Gaines hand movements, West pointed over at the man.

The CO nodded his head.

"Okay," muttered West, nodding slightly.

At first, West, Gaines and Gaines' CO simply stood staring at each other expectantly. After a few moments, however, West realized that Gaines' CO had slowly turned his attention towards West's Marines.

Looking back over his shoulder, West suddenly felt flushed with a measure of embarrassment as he saw that his Marines were little more than standing about in a gaggle, gawking and pointing every which direction around the large hangar bay like a bunch of school children on a fieldtrip.

Muttering a curse under his breath, West turned around, snapped his heels together and came to crisp attention.

"Marines, fall-in," snapped West, his voice echoing a bit off the bulkheads.

For a moment, West's Marines simply stood there, stunned, uncertain, as if they weren't sure he was being serious. Understandable; Nathan West had never had much of a reputation as a true, died-in-the-wool by-the-book officer. Still…

"I said, fall-in," snapped West again, his tone stark enough to erase all doubt.

Spurred by his tone, the Marines this time reacted just as West had intended, no, as he _expected_ them to.

Mustering the last remnants of their strength and discipline, the tired, bruised, battered Marines swiftly began falling into place in a neat formation. While his face remained unreadable, West nevertheless felt a peculiar twinge of pride as he watched them pull together, exhausted as they were, encrusted head to toe in dust and dirt, their uniforms stained with splotches of blood. Whatever else they'd become over these last brutal weeks, drained, perhaps even a bit jaded, they were still nevertheless United States Marines.

So it was that the surviving Marines of Fox Two-Twenty-Three fell into place as West stood before them at rigid attention.

"Marines, atten-_hut_!" snapped West, his voice booming even more off the surrounding bulkheads.

With the crisp slap of hands to their sides and boot heels against one another, the Marines likewise snapped to attention.

As they stood there in formation, their bodies worn and ragged, but their spirits plainly unbroken, West executed a smart about face, turning around once more to face Gaines and her CO.

Without a word, without a breath, West stood there for a moment, then raised his hand to his forehead in a crisp salute.

For their part, Gaines and her CO seemed genuinely surprised by the display. But whatever words they hadn't actually understood, they clearly understood the gesture West was extending towards them.

Respect.

Snapping his own heels together, Gaines' CO likewise came to attention before West, and with a slow, deliberate, respectful motion, returned the salute.

Returning his hand first to his side, West then raised it back to his chest, much as he'd done with Gaines down on the surface.

"Captain Nathan West."

Muttering quickly with Gaines, the CO apparently got an answer to whatever question it was he'd asked.

Then, placing his own hand on his chest, he smiled.

"_Commander_ Sean Kelso."

Okay, names.

West hadn't understood the first word, but at least he felt he was able to discern names.

Letting out a long sigh, West conceded that it was at least a start.

Smiling, he looked back over at his Marines, themselves mostly watching the exchange intently.

Letting out a long sigh, West mused for a moment more how truly ragged the surviving Marines actually looked.

Then, looking back over at Gaines' CO, the man apparently named Kelso, West shifted somewhat uncomfortably.

"Well, sir," he began, knowing full well Gaines' CO had no idea what West was saying. "What now?"


	2. Facts on the Ground

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Commander's Quarters**

As he sat flipping through Gaines' admittedly thorough after-action report, Commander Sean Kelso was utterly silent.

Standing in front of the Commander's desk, Captain Jordan Gaines merely watched as he continued to flip page after page, his expression unreadable.

However, it was much easier to read the simmering indignation in Major Tyra Burke's demeanor, the XO pacing impatiently as she too read through a copy, like a caged animal biding its time for a chance to pounce.

Before long, both Kelso and Burke finished leafing through the report. For a moment, Burke simply stood there beside the Commander's desk, subtly wringing the sheets of paper in her hands.

Reaching out, the Commander let his copy fall gently down onto the desk as he leaned back, took a deep breath, gently scratching his cheek as he looked up at the noise-dampening tiles overhead.

For Gaines, the silence was almost worse than if they'd simply ripped into her; at least with a solid ass-chewing, one generally understood where they stood. But with stony silence one was always unsure whether they'd receive a reprieve or were sitting on a proverbial landmine.

Taking another deep breath, Kelso finally looked across to Gaines.

"How are our 'guests' settling in?" he asked simply.

"Well, the wounded are being treated in sickbay, Commander, Doc Lelfer says she expects them to recover," replied Gaines, choking a bit when she realized just how dry her throat had gotten. "The others have been given a meal and a shower, they're mostly racked out right now down in the barracks. Their weapons have been inventoried and placed in the main small arms locker. I also had a few of my people lend them uniforms, at least until laundry services has had a chance to get theirs cleaned up."

"No point taking a shower if you have to put on the same dirty underwear I suppose," grinned Kelso slightly as he reached over and gently fingered the edges of the report.

"No, sir," muttered Gaines, watching the Commander's movements, trying to decipher what was going through his mind.

But while Commander Kelso's expression remained generally unreadable, the glare Gaines continued to receive from Major Burke was coming across loud and clear; the XO was borderline furious.

For her part, Gaines tried to appear unfazed by the XO's silent scorn.

And yet…

"Sir, if I may…" began Gaines, cutting herself off as the Commander slowly raised up his hand.

Her mouth shut, Gaines stood there as he looked up at her again.

"You do realize you've put me in one hell-of-a difficult position, right?"

There was no anger in his voice, no recrimination in his words, just a blunt, even sincerity in what he said.

"Yes, sir, I do realize," began Gaines, stopping once more as he again held up his hand.

"No, Captain, I don't think you do," he sighed, leaning forward on his desk as he gently scratched the back of his neck again. "We went out to that star system to investigate the wreckage found by the recon Raptor; to get information. I sent you and your team down to that moon looking for the source of a wireless beacon; again, to get information. And now…"

"Now you may have embroiled in someone else's war," snapped Burke flatly. "You opened fire on, and called in an airstrike upon, beings _unknown_, killing scores of them without regard for the long term consequences."

"With all due respect, Major," seethed Gaines as she met Burke's glare. "It was the consequences of _not_ acting that I was more concerned with."

"You had no information on who these people are or why this war is being waged," snapped Burke angrily as she tossed the report down on the Commander's desk.

"But I do know that if we hadn't intervened every last one of those people, those _human beings_ bunked down with my Marines would be dead right now," replied Gaines, her own anger only barely restrained.

"And we have almost fifty thousand lives in this fleet, over twenty-seven thousand of which are civilians," shouted Burke. "Men, women, children, crammed into every last bit of space, living on scraps; did you take them into account when you decided to blast those ships out of the sky?"

Gaines didn't reply.

"I didn't think so," growled Burke, shaking her head. "You acted rashly, and in doing so may have put the lives of everyone in this fleet at risk."

Looking over at Kelso, Gaines, certain as she was that she'd done the right thing, was nevertheless still searching for something in the Commander's demeanor that would convey _he_ at least understood.

"You had no right to overstep the bounds of your orders, Captain," continued Burke sternly. "You and your team were under no direct threat."

"I acted to _save_ human lives," snapped Gaines, her own ire utterly piqued.

"And in doing so unilaterally declared war on a potentially threatening alien species about which we know next to nothing," yelled Burke, her tone growing ever more accusatorial. "If it was up to me, you'd be relieved of duty, thrown in the brig and…"

"That's enough, Major," interjected Kelso flatly.

In an instant, Burke fell silent.

As the two of them, Burke and Gaines, stood glaring across at one another, Kelso slowly stood up, took hold of the report, and absently flipped through the pages once more.

"Captain Gaines may have exceeded her original objective when she became actively involved in the combat," began Kelso, taking a deep breath as he looked across at her. "But I honestly can't say I wouldn't have done the same in her position."

Looked as if she'd been struck by a physical blow, Burke looked first to the Commander, then over at Gaines, her expression utterly stunned.

"The Captain may have fired the first shots," continued Kelso evenly as he paused to reread a line from the report. "But considering we have no idea as to the extent or breadth of this conflict, it may just be that direct contact with either side would have been inevitable, better that it occurred now more-or-less on our terms."

"Thank you, Commander," muttered Gaines evenly.

"Don't thank me, Captain," replied Kelso flatly as she looked back over at her. "You were in a hard situation, isolated on the surface and cut off from communication. For my part, I loathe the idea of outright questioning my operational commanders after-the-fact, and neither should any of my subordinates."

Still fuming, Burke nevertheless appeared to be reigning in her anger a bit as Kelso spoke.

"Understood, Commander," muttered the Major, almost through gritted teeth.

"_But_, Captain, you're not completely off the hook here," continued Kelso as he leveled a completely no-nonsense gaze upon Gaines. "First, I want you to evaluate for yourself what your exact motivation was down there; analyze it hard."

"Sir?"

"Tactical considerations aside; did you chose to intervene because it was the sound decision militarily, or did you make the choice because you let emotion enter into the equation at a critical moment?"

Looking at him across the desk, digesting what the Commander had said, Gaines stood silent.

"And more importantly," began Kelso evenly, for the first time letting the barest hint of a grin cross his face. "Since you're the one who brought the stray dogs home, you get the job of cleaning up after them."

"Sir?" muttered Gaines.

"I'm leaving it to you to watch over the soldiers, they'll be your responsibility," continued Kelso, pausing to let out a long sigh. "Circumstances of how you came into contact with them aside, you're right; living survivors have the potential of yielding much more information than sorting through scrap, if we can get past this language barrier…"

"I'll do what I can, sir," replied Gaines evenly.

Pausing for a moment, Kelso looked over at Gaines, then began gently nodding his head.

"Dismissed, Captain Gaines," sighed Kelso evenly.

With that, Gaines executed a smart salute, turned, and left.

As the Marine posted outside Commander Kelso's quarters closed the entry hatch, Kelso slowly turned and looked up at Major Burke.

"Little harsh in your assessment, don't you think?"

As Burke looked over at the Commander, Kelso could still see the proverbial flames in her eyes.

"She may have put the lives of everyone in our fleet at risk, sir," replied Burke evenly.

"You don't have to sell that fact to me, Major," said Kelso, leaning back slightly in his chair. "I'm very much aware her actions may have, no, not _may_ have, _have_ indeed made our situation more difficult. Hence why I didn't cut off your rebuke sooner, but…"

Taking a deep breath, Kelso let his train of thought go as he picked Gaines' report back up and held it appraisingly.

"Has Major Lelfer begun the autopsy on the alien body that was also recovered from the surface?"

"Last word from medical, Doc Lefler was a bit occupied tending to the wounded survivors from the surface," replied Major Burke evenly, her tone even as she seemed to be seeking more of a response from the Commander.

For a few moments, Kelso simply sat there, silent, absently flipping through the pages of the report.

"Commander," sighed Burke, almost flabbergasted. "We need to deal with this situation."

"And we will, Major, as best we can," replied Kelso evenly as he reached up and began gently massaging the bridge of his nose.

"That might not be good enough, Commander," countered Burke flatly. "Between the supplies situation and caring for the civilians, our circumstances were dire enough already. Now with Gaines' unilateral declaration of war on this alien species, we could easily find ourselves staring down the barrels of an enemy combat force with little to no warning. We _have_ to assume those ships in orbit saw our extraction."

"_Galactica_ _is_ a bit hard to miss," smirked Kelso, looking up in time to see the growing frustration on Burke's face. "Major, I understand what you're trying to get across, believe me, I _do_. The last thing we need right now with several unarmed ships full of civilians in tow is to become embroiled in a military confrontation, but we may not have that choice anymore."

"So fate has cursed us to escape the Cylons only to face another enemy," sighed Burke, her tone somewhat more resigned.

"I don't believe in fate," replied Kelso simply, glancing back up at her. "In any case, we have no choice but to deal with the situation as it is, not as we wish it were."

"You mean deal with our new enemy."

"But, with enemies, at least in this case, we might also have a chance of finding some allies," countered Kelso evenly. "Those soldiers Gaines and her team saved down there, she's right; first and foremost, they're human beings. And if you can get past whatever personal animosity you feel towards the Captain, I'm sure you'll agree with me, what else could she have done?"

"Are you taking her side, sir?"

Looking back up at Burke, Kelso could almost see a wounded vulnerability.

"This is not about taking a side, Major," replied Kelso. "Whatever your opinions are about what Captain Gaines did on the surface it doesn't change the facts of our situation."

"Maybe not, Commander," sighed Burke, the edge in her tone abating somewhat. "But the question remains; what do we do next, sir?"

"The only thing we can do for right now, Major," sighed Kelso as he looked up, an almost pained look in his eyes. "As of this moment…"

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Command Operations Center**

"…we start getting this fleet ready for combat," finished Commander Sean Kelso evenly.

With those words still hanging heavy in the air, the Commander slowly looked around at each of the other ship commanders assembled around the large plot table.

To be sure, over the last several months, they'd all managed to navigate the currents of adversity, from the escaping the Cylon assault on the Colonies, to working towards providing the civilians with some semblance of a normalized existence, to the looming threat of a shortage of critical supplies with generally calm distinction. Indeed, were it not for the personal fortitude of each of the other vessel commanders, Commander Sean Kelso doubted he'd have been able to keep the survivors in the fleet going these last several months.

But from the looks on their collective faces, ranging from somber silence to stunned resignation, anyone walking in at that moment might have thought that Kelso had just gut-punched each one of them individually.

"Do we have any idea of just what we're up against?" asked his father, Adrian Kelso after several tense, silent moments.

"Frankly, we know very little," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he continued to look from face to face. "We have no hard data as yet on strength, disposition or overall capabilities of these hostile aliens."

"What about the survivors you spoke of, the ones Captain Gaines and her Marine team pulled up from the surface?" asked Hanna Shepard, one of the civilian captains. "Haven't they been able to give us any intel?"

"As stated in the report, it would be an understatement to say that communication with them is difficult," sighed Commander Kelso as he held up one of the copies of Gaines' report he'd handed out to each of them. "So far we've only been able to convey our meaning by basic hand signals and such; we simply don't speak the same language."

"What _do_ we know?" asked Paul Bess flatly as he leaned in a little over the plot table.

"Again, very little," replied Commander Kelso evenly. "We did retrieve one of the alien corpses from the moon's surface when we extracted our team. Unfortunately, when Major Lelfer attempted to perform an autopsy on the body, either by design or by some biological process we don't yet understand, it _melted_."

"Melted?" asked Adrian Kelso.

"For lack of a better way of describing it," nodded Commander Sean Kelso. "It could be some sort of suicide device built into the alien's armor to prevent an enemy from gathering intel, or it could be a reaction between the alien's biology and our atmosphere, Major Lelfer couldn't be sure either way."

"This report says _Galactica_ encountered several ships in orbit around the moon," noted Colonel Webber evenly.

"We had a good DRADIS track on what we believe to be capital-grade vessels and accompanying fighter-sized craft right before we jumped back to the fleet," replied Commander Kelso, taking a deep breath as he spoke. "For now we can only assume they belong to the same species Captain Gaines and her team engaged on the surface."

"Judging from their mass, they're smaller than the _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_," muttered Runel as he flipped through a couple pages of the report the Commander had passed out to each of the ship CO's. "Speed and maneuverability look to be about on par with them, though."

"Presuming they weren't holding back," interjected Colonel Brianna Webber. "They might have been surprised by _Galactica_'s presence in orbit and held back to see how we'd respond."

"A valid possibility," conceded Commander Kelso. "What little we _can_ surmise about the capabilities of these aliens is based upon the action on the surface, however limited that contact was. The Marine team was able to down three of their craft with relative ease using standard SAM's, as well as engage their ground troops using normal munitions. In these respects we generally seem to be on par with these new hostiles."

"Unless they held back there as well," interjected another of the civilian captains, Kent Orten.

"Doubtful," countered Runel evenly as he continued to peruse through the report lying before him. "From Gaines' AA-report, it seems pretty clear that without the Scimitar's airstrike her people would have been overrun."

"Succinct answer; these new hostiles are formidable, but not invincible," stated Adrian Kelso flatly, his statement eliciting a few nods from around the large plot table. "Where are the survivors right now?"

"Captain Gaines has bunked them in with her Marines for the time being," replied Commander Kelso. "She and her people will be keeping an eye on them, not that it matters much, most of them have simply been catching up on sleep. From their condition I'm guessing they were down there for quite a while."

"So what do you have in mind?" asked Paul Bess.

"First and foremost, the safety of this fleet," replied Commander Kelso flatly. "And to that end, as of now, tylium consumption caps on all combat assets are lifted. This fleet's first line of defense is our fighter cover so I want our pilots off their asses and back in their cockpits getting back up to regs on their qualifications immediately."

"Understood, Commander," replied Colonel Webber.

"Sir, if I may, at least a third of our pilots aren't really active pilots anymore," interjected Major Amanda Tyle, the CO of the _Proteus_. "They're just civilians who happened to be next to a Viper when the Cylon attack began."

"I wouldn't be so dismissive, Major," countered Paul Bess, his tone almost insulted. "Most of those lowly 'civilians' worked on my depot before the attack and even before that almost all were well-qualified Viper jocks who'd mustered out. Hardly novices."

"Maybe so, but what about the pilots that were aboard the _Savitri_ when we escaped the Colonies?" continued Major Tyle. "Most of them were barely nuggets just past Viper transition."

"To be blunt, right now we need every man and woman who's held a stick ready to fly," stated Commander Kelso evenly. "Like it or not, they're going to be needed if we stumble into the thick of this fight. Now we've shuffled the rosters once already since we escaped from the Cylons, mixing up the nuggets and civilians with the active pilots. All we can do is get our birds back up, shake off the dust and see if the rosters need any further adjustment."

Taking a slow, deep breath, Commander Kelso looked out at the subtly dubious expressions around the table. This wasn't about confidence in him as much as it was uncertainty. For his own part, he could understand that uncertainty.

While they'd managed to escape the Cylons and the destruction of the Colonies, it would be fair to say they'd done so 'just barely'. Even with all the personnel transfers and redistributions still meant that there was a varying mix of civilians and active Colonial military personnel on most every ship in the fleet. The ad hoc arrangement worked well enough to keep the fleet moving and functioning, but would it stand up to test of combat, where unit cohesion was sometimes the lone critical element between survival and destruction?

Leaning in a bit over the plot table, Commander Kelso looked out at the commanders around the table.

"Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but we need to work this problem," said Kelso evenly as he looked around at the faces assembled around the table. "Right now, we need to start coming up with a plan of action we can _all_ agree upon."

"And what about the general populace, Commander?" asked Paul Bess evenly. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, rumors are already beginning to spread far and wide; people are on edge."

"There are always going to be rumors, Paul," said Adrian Kelso.

"Point is, outside of this room, no one has the full story," continued Bess as he looked around at the other ship commanders assembled around the table. "Bits and pieces maybe, but not the whole picture. And when people don't have the full story, or at least _feel_ as though they don't have the full story, their imagination starts to work overtime on all the worst possibilities."

"Are you suggesting we simply divulge everything we know to the entire fleet?" asked Colonel Webber, her tone somewhat dubious over the suggestion.

"We're going to have a hard time keeping a lid on the speculation if we start ramping up our readiness level," replied Bess. "It might be a good idea to just be up front with everyone about the situation."

"I'm not certain that's such a good idea, especially since we still know so little ourselves," countered Colonel Webber as she looked over at Bess. "I mean, we're talking about honest to the gods _alien_ life."

"Aliens or humans, doesn't matter, people are going to ask questions," shot back Bess. "We need to have answers or there could be trouble, plain and simple."

Taking a deep, pensive breath, Commander Sean Kelso mulled over what Bess saying.

Try as he might to think otherwise, he knew damned well that the former director had a valid point. While it might be possible to keep the majority of the actual crews, especially the more homogenous military crews, occupied and in line with training and preparation, there were still literally tens of thousands of civilians without such distractions.

"We could just tell them we're preparing our defenses in case the Cylons return," offered Major Ambrose.

"I'm not so certain _that_ would be a wise idea," countered Colonel Runel as he looked over at the _Adroa_'s CO. "On the one hand, it's a lie we might find ourselves cornered by later. Second, after six months of zero contact with the Cylons, how would we explain choosing this moment to begin getting our combat assets back in order?"

"Which brings us back to full disclosure," finished Adrian Kelso.

"Why don't we just turn around?" interjected Dannick Perin, yet another of the civilian captains. "I mean, since we've only just stumbled into this situation we're likely still at the periphery. What's to stop us from just heading back the other way? If we're able to get away from the conflict then there's really nothing to explain."

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso looked around at the faces around the table. From their expressions, it was clear that Perin's statement had struck a chord with a good number of them, and not just the civilians.

"I guess the simplest answer is that we already _know_ what's behind us, and that's little to nothing," began Commander Kelso evenly. "For six months now we've been pushing steadily ahead through empty space, slowly bleeding away what supplies we have. Now we don't know everything about what's ahead, but we do know at least one thing; somewhere, likely very close by, is a planet capable of supporting human life."

"And there are going to be plenty of people in the fleet, both military and civilian who might feel that the possibility of finding a new, permanent home would be worth taking any risk," interjected Paul Bess. "Perhaps, even worth getting involved in someone else's war."

"There's another potentially sticky issue we need to consider if we let the fleet know what's going on," began Adrian Kelso evenly. "There are going to be those who'll suggest, and I'm sure there are a few of you right here in this room who are thinking it, that we may have located the home of the lost Thirteenth tribe."

"Oh, gods, the Gemenese are going to _love_ that," sighed Major Ambrose.

"Are you suggesting we might be fulfilling the prophecy laid out in the scrolls of Pythia?" asked Colonel Runel as he looked across at the elder Kelso.

For his part, Commander Sean Kelso couldn't help but shake his head slightly. In spite of his mother's best attempts, Sean had never really embraced religion. He preferred the pragmatic, the concrete; equations, physics, mathematics, concrete problems with real-world solutions. Religion was simply too esoteric, too interpretational.

But beyond his own misgivings about religion, Commander Kelso found himself genuinely torn over what he should do.

For his part, Commander Kelso's first impulse was to simply be upfront with everyone in the fleet. But based upon the tenor and nature of the conversation taking place around the room, there were any number of obscure variables that would have to be taken into account, from the generalized fear of the unknown, to, as pointed out by Runel and his own father, the religious ramifications of not only the existence of alien life but the presence of humans from outside the Colonies. In trying to anticipate how all these factors would affect their situation, Sean Kelso found himself absently longing for the relative simplicity of working at the shipyard.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Sean Kelso looked out at the assembled officers and civilian captains around the operations table.

"Look, people, I know we'll be tiptoeing through a potential minefield of public opinion," he began, his tone faintly exasperated. "But, the last thing we need to do is compound the problems we're already facing by making any rash decisions."

"Then what do you intend to tell the people?" asked Paul Bess flatly.

"One step at a time, Paul," continued Commander Kelso. "First and foremost, we need to start getting this fleet back into fighting trim. The opinions and sensibilities of the people won't matter for anything if they die because we failed to defend them."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Marine Barracks**

Captain Nathan West slowly made his way along the line of bunks.

Most of his Marines were still crashed out, catching up on what seemed like eons of lost sleep.

As for West himself, in spite of how bone-deep tired he still felt, he nevertheless felt restless.

As he looked around at the comparatively few surviving Marines, West felt uneasy, even somewhat divided.

For seventeen weeks they'd endured nothing short of hell on some forsaken moon, watching as one Marine after another was killed and butchered by the Chigoes until all told two hundred seventy-one souls had been lost.

And then, right when the ragged few who remained had been expecting the final hammer blow to come down on them a reprieve that even Hollywood would have had a hell-of-a-time writing into a screenplay came screaming down from the skies accompanied by a hail of ordnance, turning the tables on the Chigs, smearing them across the surface of that moon and granting a heaven-sent reprieve to him and his thirty-three Marines.

But more than mere rescuers, these were people speaking some unknown language, wearing unfamiliar uniforms, piloting unusual aircraft from the deck of one hell-of-a big damned ship.

To say the least, there was still an amount of wariness amongst his surviving Marines over trusting a group of people they couldn't even talk to; mid-twenty-first century or not, human beings still reacted defensively when confronted with the unknown. Nevertheless, these strangers, whoever they actually were, had tended to their wounded, provided the Marines with some hot chow, a shower and clean uniforms, and then a chance to catch up on long-overdue shut-eye; the trifecta of an infantrymen's basic comforts.

Walking along the rows of sleeping Marines, West simply shook his head.

The fortunes of war rarely seemed to favor the grunt so much.

Taking a deep breath, West looked around the compartment.

The berthing area the Marines had been billeted in was large by the standards he was used to, easily able to accommodate three times the number of Marines left under his command.

Big…

West shook his head again, grinning.

Everything about this ship was so damned _big_.

And for Captain Nathan West that fact alone added to an already big damned mystery.

Sure, he and the other Marines had been cut off for months now, but a ship this big would have taken _years_ to build. Moreover, it would have been impossible to keep news of the ship's existence under wraps, something this gargantuan couldn't be built in Earth orbit without word of it making its way through the rumor mill. Hell, all it would have taken for word to get out was one schmuck in his backyard with a telescope and an internet connection.

"Can't sleep, Captain?"

The sound of the voice startled West a bit.

Looking over at the rack to his left, West saw Private Sinclair looking up at him from his pillow.

"I could ask you the same thing, Sinclair," muttered West as he stepped over and leaned against the head of the bunk.

"I was just lying here trying to figure out what the story was with this ship, Captain," muttered Sinclar, gently shaking his head as he glanced around the expansive space. "This whole thing, somehow, it just doesn't make much sense."

"Like it's too good to be true, huh?" muttered West as he too looked around.

"Not exactly, Captain," sighed Sinclair. "I mean, it just doesn't make sense when you think about it."

"How so?"

"Well, this ship for one," began Sinclair, casting his hand about. "How the _hell_ could anyone have built a ship this big without it getting just a ton of press?"

While West could have countered Sinclair's point with a retort regarding the virtues of military secrecy, he stopped short of doing so since he himself had just been mulling over that fact himself.

"And something else I've noticed that doesn't make sense, Captain," continued Sinclair, yawning a bit. "Everywhere we've gone aboard this ship there's been whites, blacks, Asians. You usually only see an ethnic mix like this aboard a US warship, maybe British or Canadian, not a whole lot of others."

"Maybe IFOR has done a bit more in the way of integration since we've been cut-off," offered West, nowhere near believing his own explanation.

"This kind of integration, in just _four_ months?" muttered Sinclair, pausing.

West could only cant his head slightly, silently conceding the improbability.

"Do you have a better idea, Sinclair?"

"No, sir," sighed Sinclair, shaking his head a bit. "But if they are IFOR, sir, how is it they have _no one_ aboard who speaks any English? No exchange liaisons, no intelligence officers; I thought having translators aboard was IFOR SOP."

For his part, West could only stand there and continue to nod at what Sinclair was saying.

"You've hit a couple good points to be sure, Private," began West, grinning a bit. "But let's also be honest; we're here, can we really do anything but just go along for the ride for now?"

"I suppose not, Captain," sighed Sinclair, shrugging a bit. "Still, it would be nice to know what the hell was actually going on for once."

"Can't argue with you there," sighed West as he pushed off from the rack. "Get some sleep, Private."

"Aye, Captain."

With that, Sinclair, turned over onto his side as West set out again along the rows of bunks.

As much as he wished otherwise, the conversation with Sinclair had only served to stoke West's own personal suspicions. Moreover, West almost found himself hating that fact. These people, whoever they were, had done nothing to warrant anything but gratitude from West and his Marines.

But, it _was_ IFOR SOP for there to be translators on board. And, yes, it was unusual to have such a racially integrated crew that wasn't US, Brit or Canadian; most IFOR units were still pretty ethnically homogenous.

It was grating to have that nagging sense that something far more profound than the plain and obvious was taking place and yet have no concrete way of knowing different either way.

Taking a deep breath, West finally came to the end of the row of racks.

Looking up, West grinned a bit as he noticed the simple pull-up bar bolted to the bulkhead.

Stepping up to the bar, West reached up for it and winced as a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder.

During a skirmish a couple of weeks ago, West had taken a rather nasty fall when he'd come around a small outcropping and literally run headlong into a Chig who'd been cut off from the rest of its unit. With his shoulder having taken the brunt of the initial impact, West and the Chigoe had gone down tumbling in a flail of limbs. During the brief struggle that followed, they'd wrestled each other for leverage, West fortuitously managing to pull out his bayonet. As a result, West had walked away from the brief, violent encounter. The Chig hadn't.

But even now, several weeks after the fact, his shoulder was still sore. So it was that he stood there for a few moments contemplating the bar as he gently massaged the ache away.

Finally, taking a deep breath, West reached up, gripping his hands around the bar. While he still felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder, West nevertheless went to a dead-hang, then pulled himself up till his chin was a good four inches over the bar.

Back down to a dead-hang, inhale…

And up again, slow exhale…

With the same questions still swirling about over and again in his mind, West continued.

Down, up, down once more, then up again.

With sweat beading up on his forehead, West let out a heavy breath as he extended his legs back down beneath him and dropped from the bar.

"Twenty," he whispered in subdued triumph through slightly labored breaths.

Reaching up, he again gently massaged his shoulder, content at least in the knowledge that his injury hadn't yet affected his potential PFT score.

Not that he really intended to pursue promotion to Major…

Still, there was a matter of pride…

Slowly turning around, West stopped when he realized that someone was standing at the entry hatch near the pull-up bar.

It was Gaines.

He hadn't heard her enter, and she was now simply standing there, gently nodding in approval.

With a smirk, West took a single step back, motioning with his hand towards the bar.

For her part, Gaines looked over at West, grinning slightly as she pointed at herself.

West nodded.

The challenge issued, Gaines quickly stepped over to the bar.

As she stood below the bar, Gaines quickly removed her uniform blouse, gently lying it out on the deck before hopping up and grabbing hold of the bar.

As his counterpart began a steady set of pull-ups, West simply crossed his arms, watching intently.

Not surprisingly, the clearly fit Gaines was able to quickly knock out a full set of twenty, by US Marine Corps standards a perfect score.

But as she continued to hang there on the bar for a moment, Gaines glanced back over her shoulder at West, grinned a bit, then continued.

By the time his female counterpart completed her thirty-third pull-up, West had to admit he was impressed.

Almost in spite of himself, West quickly realized that Gaines' attitude reminded him a lot of Shane Vansen.

As that thought passed through his mind, Gaines dismounted the bar after number thirty-five, her boots thumping as they hit the deck.

Her breathing only a bit labored from the exertion, Gaines reached down and picked back up her uniform shirt.

Slipping her arms into the sleeves, Gaines looked up at West as he now stood nodding approvingly.

As she went fastening the first button of her uniform shift, Gaines motioned out at the rows of racks where West's Marines were resting, then made a quick thumbs-up gesture, canting her head slightly, indicating it was an inquiry.

West immediately returned the thumbs-up, nodding his own head somewhat adamantly as he too glanced over at the sleeping grunts.

"Can't argue with clean sheets and a cot," muttered West even though he knew full well that Gaines likely had no idea what is was he was saying.

Nodding her head, Gaines simply smiled as she turned and took a few steps back towards the entryway.

As he watched Gaines go, West let out a long sigh.

This language barrier was becoming more than simply an annoyance.

Gaines must have heard the sigh, perhaps even the frustration behind it for she stopped and turned back around to face him.

For a few seconds, Gaines simply stood there looking at him, reading his expression, her own face contorted somewhat as she mulled something over in her mind.

Finally, Gaines stepped back over to him.

Lifting her hand up, Gaines pointed first at West, then over at the rest of the Marines racked out in the berthing area. Then, as West watched, Gaines held her arms up, mimicking holding a rifle.

Not quite understanding, West shrugged.

"I don't understand."

Letting out a long sigh, Gaines stood there for a second, glancing about, her gaze settling on an empty hangar on the end of one of the racks.

Stepping over to it, Gaines once again removed her uniform blouse, draped it over the hangar, then stepped back over and hung the hangar on the pull-up bar. That done, Gaines stepped back over towards West, pointing first at him and then around towards the sleeping Marines. Once more, Gaines mimicked holding a rifle, this time pantomiming as though she were aiming in on her suspended uniform blouse.

Like a light going off in his head, West suddenly thought he understood what it was Gaines was trying to get across.

'_Did West and his Marines want to practice on a weapons range_?'

At least, that's what West hoped Gaines meant.

Holding his own arms up as if he was holding a weapon, West likewise pretended he was aiming in on Gaines' uniform, adding in a few quick trigger-finger moments for effect, nodding his head as he did so.

With a wide grin, Gaines likewise nodded once in approval.

Quickly stepping over to retrieve her uniform, draping is across her forearm, Gaines motioned up at the clock hanging on the bulkhead and then down at the watch on her wrist. Pointing first at the short hand, then at the long hand, she pointed at the character at the top of the watchface; presumably twelve o'clock.

West nodded, grinning a bit in satisfaction.

Clearly pleased, Gaines turned and headed out the entryway.

Standing there for a few more moments, West simply watched Gaines depart.

"What was that about, Captain?" asked Corporal Wilson as he stepped up beside West.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it was rude to eavesdrop, Corporal?" muttered West as he slowly turned and looked over at Wilson.

"Hard to call it eavesdropping when no one is actually talking, Captain," shrugged Wilson as he looked back over at West. "Besides, Mom loved to gossip too much to mind her own business."

"Nevertheless, I'm sure you've heard the saying that it's best to keep your mind on matters within your own pay-grade, Corporal," muttered West as he glanced back over at the clock on the bulkhead.

"It's also said that a good Marine knows the job of the Marine appointed over them," countered Wilson flatly. "Last time I checked, I'm the next senior-most man in our truncated chain-of-command, Captain, which means I need to know _your_ job as our current CO."

"Point taken," sighed West, shaking his head slightly as he grinned. "Unless I miss my guess, Corporal Wilson, Gaines just invited us to enjoy some trigger time of their weapons range."

"No disrespect, Captain, but what the hell for?"

"This communication issue goes both ways, Corporal," began West evenly. "They seem to be about as frustrated and eager to overcome it as we are."

"And how would sending some rounds down-range facilitate communication, sir?"

"I don't know," shrugged West slightly. "But at least it gives us something to do other than sit here watching the paint peel."

"Aye, aye, Captain," sighed Wilson. "When do we go to the range?"

"Noon, I think," replied West, scowling slightly at the unfamiliar characters on the clock. "Midday, midnight, whichever it is. In any case, not for a few hours yet. You should go ahead and get back in your rack."

"Is that an order, Captain?"

"It is indeed, Corporal," replied West evenly as he slowly looked back over at Wilson. "This is after all potentially a matter of honor."

"A matter of honor, Captain?" asked Wilson somewhat incredulously.

"Every Marines is a rifleman, Corporal," replied West flatly. "The last thing we'd want to do is disgrace ourselves by hitting anywhere outside the black."

"Never much figured you for the 'God, country and United States Marine Corps' type, Captain," muttered Wilson as he looked somewhat askance over at West.

"Never really thought of myself as such either, Corporal," replied West evenly. "If it helps, just think of it as practice towards the qual that will get you that third stripe."

"Hadn't planned on reenlisting, Captain," smirked Wilson.

"Well, stop-loss can be a bitch," countered West, grinning slightly. "But as long as you're here, you might as well do well by the uniform."

"You mean _this_ uniform, Captain," muttered Wilson as he motioned down at the non-USMC issue uniform provided by the ship's crew.

Looking over at Wilson, West opened his mouth, hesitated, then began gently shaking his head.

"Just get back in your rack, smart-ass," muttered West as he pointed a thumb back over at Wilson's empty bunk.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Lower Decks**

As he made his way casually along the corridor, Commander Sean Kelso was slowly going over in his mind the latest meeting he'd had with his senior officers. While rather short by comparison to other meetings he had conducted with them over the last several months, this meeting had none-the-less served to drive home in Kelso's mind the amount of work that now lay ahead of the fleet.

This morning's Viper maneuvers, the first real training conducted since the fleet's escape from the Colonies, had very nearly ended in disaster when two planes collided with one another during a mock force-on-force engagement. Neither pilot had been injured in the incident, and despite the damage, both planes had been able to limp back to the _Proteus_.

But as he mulled the incident over, Kelso began gently shaking his head.

In reality, Kelso knew he had no one to truly blame but himself; it was his orders to conserve fuel that had cut the number of flight hours the pilots received. When he'd issued the order, the CAGs from all three ships, _Galactica_, _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ had vehemently protested the cut in flight time. They'd argued that their fleet's decidedly unorthodox air wing, a mixture of active Viper pilots, raw nuggets barely out of flight school, and old veterans long out of the service, needed much more flight time in order to become proficient enough to be an asset, rather than a liability, in combat.

But he hadn't listened.

And it was that shortsightedness on his part that had nearly cost two pilots their lives.

Now all three air wings would be playing a dangerous game of catch-up, working under the pressure of a possible conflict erupting at a moment's notice to hone and remaster skills that by all rights they never should have had a chance to let atrophy.

So it was that Sean Kelso had to admit he was still learning his new role as Commander. As an engineer, his first impulse had been to conserve the resources they had and keep the fleet moving, relying too heavily on the too few simulators aboard the _Savitri_.

He'd allowed the tip of the spear to become rusty. Now all he could do was hope this new alien threat didn't appear in-force before his people had a chance to once again sharpen their skills.

The alien threat…

So much palpable menace and uncertainty lay in those simple words.

Even more of a mystery than the humans Captain Gaines had managed to rescue from the moon surface, the greatest threat these aliens posed was the imposing peril of the unknown.

In all their centuries of spaceflight, between the Colonies themselves, as well as into the near reaches of deep space, no human on the Twelve Colonies had ever encountered anything to foster a belief that any other intelligent beings existed amongst the stars.

Extra-Colonial Aliens had long ago been relegated to being mere waning plot devices of science fiction.

Back on the Colonies, the greatest threat, the _only_ threat amongst the stars had been the Cylons, machines originally built by human hands.

And now, in a turn of events that would have flipped the entire scientific community of the Twelve Colonies onto their collective heads had they not been vaporized in Cylon attack, not only had Kelso's unconventional fleet found potential evidence of the fabled Thirteenth tribe, but they'd also confirmed the existence of life beyond the descendents of Kobol.

And yet, amazing as these two events might have seemed from an academic perspective, there was still so much daunting real-world ambiguity about it all.

Last night, teams of deckhands and engineers had feverishly sifted through the large piles of wreckage collected by the Raptors from the debris field. Most of the debris had been frustratingly unremarkable, mostly alloys similar if not metallurgically identical to those used by the Colonials themselves. There had also been a few pieces of ceramic-like composites found amid the debris which could have come from one of the aliens' ships, but only time would tell if they'd be able to learn anything truly useful from the piles of junk.

As for the alien body retrieved from the moon, since it had pretty much dissolved into little more than a nauseating puddle of methane and sulfur-rich chemicals when Doctor Lefler had attempted her autopsy, it was providing even fewer insights into their enemy than the junk on the hangar deck.

Shaking his head, Kelso silently cursed himself.

Preoccupied with the problems his own fleet now faced, Commander Sean Kelso found himself as much as anything fighting against becoming jaded. The debris field hadn't just popped into existence out of nothingness. At one time, the twisted masses of metal piled up on his hangar deck had once made up a ship.

A human ship…

Not too different from his own _Galactica_, from any other ship in his fleet…

And like any of the ships in his fleet, men and women had been aboard that ship when she'd met her fate. When it had been destroyed, its crew had been consigned to a harsh death in the cold depths of space. If he lost sight of that sobering fact, he feared, he might begin losing touch with his own humanity.

As he was mulling this thought over in his mind, Kelso continued along the corridor.

But as he was passing by a small cross-junction, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Pausing mid-step, Commander Sean Kelso slowly looked to his left and saw two people pressed up against the bulkhead, locked in a passionate kiss.

And not just anybody; it was a couple of Gaines' Marines.

By the way the man was slowly moving his hand up the inside of her uniform shirt, it was clear that neither of them had any clue he was standing there.

So it was that as the man's hand slowly began to massage one of her breasts, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from the young lady, Kelso made a very deliberate effort of clearing his throat.

Their instant reaction couldn't have been more surprised had Kelso tossed a live grenade towards them. Practically leaping out of their passionate lip-lock, the two of them turned, the woman making a frantic effort to try and readjust her uniform blouse as they both snapped to rigid attention.

But as priceless as their surprised expressions were at having been caught, it was not so nearly as amusing as the one that followed when they realized whom it was they'd been caught by.

Doing his best to remain outwardly unreadable, indeed, to keep from breaking down into outright laughter at the expressions on their faces, Kelso simply stood there for a moment, staring at them.

After allowing them to suffer for a few silent seconds, Kelso slowly turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and took a couple steps towards them.

"Did I interrupt something?" he asked evenly.

"No, sir," replied the man, his voice flustered, wavering ever so slightly as he stood staring straight ahead.

"Are you _sure_?" asked Kelso, this time directing the question towards the equally stunned young woman.

"Yes, sir," she snapped.

Again, Kelso paused, causally looking from one to the other, then back again.

Then, looking down at the deck, Kelso began gently kicking at the deck plating with his left toe.

"I was under the impression that Captain Gaines had you Marines down on the small arms range today brushing up on your marksmanship," he said evenly.

"Yes, sir, we were on our way there right now, sir," snapped the man in reply.

"That's not what it looked like to me, Corporal," replied Kelso, smiling coyly as he noted the rank pin on the Marine's collar. "You seemed to have an entirely different 'target' in mind."

"We're sorry, sir," chimed in the woman, also a Corporal. "It just kind of happened, sir."

Kelso once again bowed his head for a moment, if only to keep the two Marines from seeing how much he was fighting to suppress his amusement. Finally, he looked back up at them, clearing his throat.

"Well," he sighed. "While I'll admit it has been a while since I had the pleasure of a woman's company, I remember enough about the experience to recall that what I think I just saw doesn't 'just happen', it usually involves a bit of free will and forethought."

Neither of them said a word.

As he stood there, attempting to gauge by the expressions on their faces just how mortified they truly felt inside, Kelso began to realize that this could be a symptom of another problem he hadn't yet taken into consideration.

While the Colonial Fleet did indeed have regulations curtailing, indeed, outright forbidding fraternization, it was a simple fact, men being men, and women being women, it was inevitable that attractions would form. Since their escape from the Cylons, romantic entanglements throughout the fleet, indeed, between members of the crew had almost become so commonplace as to hardly warrant the stigma of near-scandal they'd once carried.

Indeed, how could he really try and enforce such restrictions when the CO's of two of his ships, Colonel Thadius Runel and Colonel Brianna Webber were engaged to one another?

Still, the potential for difficulties as they faced what might very well be a new military threat gave him reason to pause.

"Marines," he sighed. "I have just one word for you both; discretion."

At that, both of them seemed to relax a bit, not entirely relieved, but at least enough that he doubted either of them were still in danger of suffering a heart attack.

"Now, I believe you two are supposed to be on the small arms range," said Kelso tilting his head, bidding them off down the corridor.

"Yes, sir," they replied in near unisons, immediately shuffling off past Kelso through the corridor.

Smiling, shaking his head slightly, Kelso turned and followed them through the passageway.

As the two Marines continued to briskly make their way down the corridor, Commander Kelso close on their heels, he began to hear the dull pop of small arms fire echoing off the bulkheads.

Pausing in front of the hatch leading into the small arms range, both Marines glanced back, clearly worried as they saw that Commander was indeed likewise coming to the range.

Motioning for them to enter, Kelso watched while the Marines popped the locking latch and swung the hatch open, the pop of small arms fire erupting from within, echoing loudly off the bulkheads.

Pausing long enough to slip a couple earplugs into place, Kelso slowly stepped forward into the small arms range.

As he stepped inside, Kelso saw the line of Marines, about fifty of them, lined up nearly shoulder to shoulder on the firing line, firing round after round into the line of targets on the far end of the range.

Glancing over, Kelso also saw another group of Marines, as well as what he thought were the soldiers Gaines' team had rescued on the moon, waiting behind the firing line for their turn.

As the two Marines Kelso had stumbled across made their way towards the group waiting to make their way to the firing line, Kelso saw Captain Gaines step towards them.

In spite of the earplugs and the weapons fire, he was able to hear Gaines, her voice booming nearly as much as the rounds being fired.

"Bowman, Lenore, where the hell have you two been?" she snapped.

For a moment, neither of them answered, glancing back ever so hesitantly at Kelso.

Noting their glance, Gaines likewise looked over at him.

Nodding slightly to Kelso, Gaines returned her attention to the two Marines.

"Well?" she prodded.

Making his way over, Kelso slowly held up his hand.

"That was my fault, Captain Gaines," he said evenly. "On my way down here I became a bit disoriented. Fortunately for me, I came across the two Corporals and they were kind enough to escort me down here."

Looking first over at Kelso, then back over at Bowman and Lenore, it was clear that Gaines didn't buy into his explanation for why the two were late. For their part, however, both Corporals were visibly relieved, even a bit surprised at the Commander having not simply informed Captain Gaines of the real reason the two of them were late.

"Very well, sir," sighed Gaines. "Both of you will be in the third relay."

"Aye, Captain," replied both Lenore and Bowman.

As Gaines stepped back over towards the group of Marines waiting for their turn on the firing line, both Lenore and Bowman slowly looked over at Kelso.

"Just keep in mind what I told you about discretion," muttered Kelso as he too stepped off towards the waiting group of Marines, glancing back over his shoulder at Lenore and Bowman briefly before returning his attention to the firing line.

As he stepped over beside Gaines, Kelso settled in to watch the Marines on the firing line.

"While I would never contradict you in front of subordinates, sir, I'm having a bit of trouble believing you got lost on a ship you helped to build," said Gaines evenly as she kept her eyes on the firing line.

"I was distracted," replied Kelso simply.

"You do realize those two are almost an hour late," said Gaines as she glanced over at him.

"It's a big ship," he grinned.

"Not that big," countered Gaines.

"So I take it you already know about them, then?" asked Kelso, grinning a bit.

"Hard _not_ to know," replied Gaines, likewise grinning a bit. "The two of them have been going at it like fraking rabbits ever since we escaped from the Colonies. Generally good NCO's, but discretion is not their forte."

"I spoke to them about that," replied Kelso as he glanced back over his shoulder at the two Marines.

Both Lenore and Bowman were busy checking weapons out from the custodian in the arms locker and didn't notice Kelso's attention.

"Dear gods, tell me you didn't actually catch them in the act?" groaned Gaines as she too glanced over at Bowman and Lenore.

"Just a bit of foreplay," replied Kelso with a slight shrug.

"Where were they this time?" asked Gaines as she continued to watch Bowman and Lenore.

"Middle of a cross-junction," replied Kelso, chuckling a bit.

"Frak-me," scoffed Gaines, shaking her head as she returned her attention to the firing line. "I'm surprised she's not fraking pregnant, the way those two keep going at it…gods _dammit_..."

Her voice trailing off, Gaines continued to simply shake her head.

"What kind of 'foreplay' exactly?" asked Gaines hesitantly.

In response Kelso simply held one hand up, cupping it slightly in front of Gaines' chest.

"Oh, gods _dammit_," growled Gaines, once again looking over her shoulder at Bowman and Lenore. "I'm sorry, sir, I'll take care of it."

"Don't make it a point," replied Kelso dismissively. "If getting caught in the act by the Commander doesn't throw some cold water on their heat, I doubt a dressing down by you will be much more effective."

Glancing over at Gaines, the Captain once again shaking her head slightly as she watched Bowman and Lenore fall in with their firing group, Kelso just couldn't help himself.

"You almost seem _jealous_, Captain," he smirked.

Snapping her attention back to Kelso, Gaines huffed a breath, then saw that he was grinning.

"Well," she sighed finally, shrugging slightly as she looked back over to the firing line. "It _has_ been a while for me."

Grinning slightly, Gaines glanced over at Kelso and couldn't resist the impulse to get a jab in of her own.

"And what about you, sir?"

"And what about me, what?" asked Kelso, his grin fading a bit.

Glancing around as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping, Gaines leaned in a little closer to Kelso.

"How long has it been since you were with a woman?" asked Gaines, watching him, trying to gauge his reaction for a second before adding in an obligatory 'sir'.

Clearing his throat, this time it was Kelso who glanced back over his shoulder at the large group of waiting Marines, likewise trying to discern whether anyone was paying undue attention to his conversation with Gaines.

"_Galactica_ is my woman now," he sighed, not even convincing himself.

"That long, huh?" muttered Gaines, stifling a slight chuckle.

Feeling himself beginning to flush from embarrassment, Kelso fought to keep his own gaze on the row of Marines on the firing line.

"Is there a point you're trying to make, Captain?" asked Kelso, his throat suddenly feeling a bit dry.

"Just that my door is always open," replied Gaines, coughing slightly as she pushed a more even tone into her voice. "To…_talk_, of course."

"Ah, yes, of course, to _talk_," muttered Kelso, nodding his head emphatically, feeling even more flushed than before.

For a moment, an awkward silence hung between them, Gaines and Kelso doing their best to look anything but flustered as they both forced their attention to remain on the firing line.

"Was that a little too direct?" asked Gaines finally.

"You couldn't have been any clearer if you'd sent up a flare," replied Kelso flatly.

Another awkward pause settled in over them.

"And is that all you have to say, sir?" prodded Gaines, scoffing a bit.

Clearing his throat, Kelso shifted uncomfortably.

"Honestly, no strings attached," added Gaines.

Chuckling awkwardly, Kelso found himself simply speechless.

"You have no idea, really, _no_ idea, how…tempting…" muttered Kelso, unable to bring himself to look over at Gaines as he let his voice simply trail off.

But while he couldn't bring himself to look at her, Kelso thought he could sense her disappointment, her demeanor shifting slightly.

"Well," she sighed. "If you change your mind…"

Suddenly, the overhead speakers cut in through the din of small arms fire that had been echoing throughout that range.

"_Cease fire, cease fire; unload and show clear_."

Abruptly, all along the firing line, the Marines stopped firing, dropped out the magazines from the sidearms they'd been firing, pulled back and locked over the slides and held them up for the designated Range Safety Officials to make their way along the line to check that each weapon chamber was clear.

Looking away from the firing line, Kelso glanced over, only to see that Gaines had stepped away towards the next relay waiting to approach the firing line.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, Kelso watched as Gaines motioned for them to move in around her.

It was then that Kelso realized that among the next group getting ready to fire were the human soldiers Gaines' team had discovered on the surface of the moon.

* * *

><p>Captain Nathan West stood there surrounded by his Marines, watching with them as Gaines quickly pantomimed a few commands with her hands.<p>

To be honest, West was still surprised that Gaines was allowing his Marines to fire considering they still had no idea what was actually being said. Nevertheless, from what he'd been able to observe with the first relay, the way it was conducted seemed almost spot-on identical to what he and his people were used to.

Indeed, save for the unknown language being spoken, the different uniforms and the huge ship where it was being held, West didn't really discern much of what was taking place as being different in form or procedure from any standard USMC pistol range.

And as for the weapons they'd been issued, they too seemed fairly straightforward; double-action automatics, sliding receiver assembly, twenty-round magazine inserted into the grip. West and his Marines had been given a chance to fiddle with the weapons beforehand, to get familiar with them, but this would be a live-fire.

As Gaines barked out a command to the others in their relay, the ones who could at least understand what she was saying, Gaines motioned for West and his Marines to step forward towards the firing line.

"Alright people, get on the line," snapped West as he too motioned his Marines forward.

As his Marines spread out on the left end of the firing line, West stepped up behind them, standing back far enough so he could observe them. West wouldn't be firing himself this string. Language barrier being what it was, it seemed better for him to hold back as a safety observer.

While he'd been observing the first relay, West had made it a point to try and figure out what the commands were that the actual range officer was broadcasting overhead. While he thought he had somewhat of a handle on them, West nevertheless kept casting a keen eye over to Gaines.

For her part, Gaines was plainly aware of the attention, for as each command came through the overhead speakers, Gaines would pantomime a corresponding movement with her hands.

With each command, West would first call out to his Marines, then upon receiving a thumbs-up from each, would in turn give a thumbs-up to Gaines.

"On the firing line; Load!" called West as he slipped a pair of hearing protection inserts into place.

All along the line, each Marine firmly slapped the ammo magazines into the grips of the sidearms.

Thumbs-up received from each; thumbs-up from West to Gaines.

Gaines made a motion with her hands, mimicking pulling the slide back.

West nodded.

"Make ready!" he called.

All along the line came the crisp snaps of slides being pulled back and let go, sending the first rounds into the chambers, muzzles almost immediately being angled towards the deck, at the ready.

Thumbs-up received from each Marine; thumbs-up from West to Gaines.

A command echoed out overhead, Gaines made a crisp motion with her hand towards the targets downrange.

"On the firing line, commence fire!" called West.

In an instant both groups, West's Marines and the smaller group of Gaines' people on the firing line, opened up on the targets hanging down at the far end.

It was a slow fire exercise at roughly twenty meters, forty rounds total; accuracy over speed.

Slowly making his way along the line behind his Marines, West was generally pleased with their performance. Thus far everyone was hitting in the black, though some of the groups could do with being a bit tighter.

After a few minutes, another command echoed out from the overhead speakers.

A quick glance over at Gaines confirmed what West thought.

"Cease fire! Cease Fire!" shouted West. "Unload and show clear!"

As the clatter of weapons fire quickly died off, West's Marines dropped out the ammo magazines, locked the slides back and held them up. In quick order, West made his way along the line, stepping up to each Marine, slipping a pinky finger into each chamber to ensure no rounds were still loaded, then with a quick slap on the shoulder, ordered them to send the slides back home.

Once he'd cleared the last weapon, West gave a thumbs-up to Gaines.

Nodding, Gaines motioned West's Marines back off the line.

"Make your way off the firing line," called West simply.

As he watched his Marines slowly make their way off the firing line, West barely noticed that Gaines had stepped up beside him.

Tapping West on the shoulder to get his attention, Gaines offered up a weapon to him.

Smiling, West took hold of the sidearm.

Testing the weapon's weight in his hand, West had to admit he was curious, even eager to let off a few rounds of his own.

"I was hoping I'd get a chance," muttered West as he also took hold of the two full magazines offered by Gaines.

"Hoo-rah, Captain West!" called Corporal Wilson.

Glancing back over his shoulder, West couldn't help but chuckle as not only Wilson but his entire group of Marines began calling out.

With them continuing to clap and shout out encouragement, West made his way up to the line.

As he continued to test the weapon's weight and feel in his hand, West couldn't help but remember the last time he'd last qualified with a sidearm. Although he'd qualified, he'd only scored Marksman, the dreaded 'pizza box'. Considering he'd originally managed a much more respectable Expert rating during basic, his drastic drop in qualification level had been more than a touch humiliating.

But with the war being what it was, ship-bound in deep space, formal ranges were hard to come by, as such West hadn't yet had the opportunity to rectify that particular, personal shame.

Most of his trigger time came on the battlefield, where accuracy mattered most but didn't count towards a scorecard.

As he stood on the firing line, West looked back, searching for Gaines, only to see his counterpart likewise stepping up to the firing line.

With her own people calling out excitedly, Gaines stood practically shoulder-to-shoulder with West, a sidearm in her own hands.

On the far end of the range, two fresh targets descended into place on their respective lanes.

"One-on-one, huh?" muttered West, canting his head slightly.

"You can take her, Captain!" called Corporal Wilson, clapping loudly.

"Honor of our country and our Corps, eh, Wilson?" replied West as he cast his eyes down the lane towards his target.

"Semper Fi, Captain."

Shaking his head slightly, West glanced one more time over at Gaines.

"What the hell," he smiled. "Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition."

While West doubted Gaines had understood him in word, it was clear not only from the bemused expression on her face but from the excited calls still coming from his counterpart's people that they understood the sentiment well enough.

"Okay, let's do it," sighed West as he slapped the first magazine into place.

As Gaines likewise loaded a magazine into place, both of them stood on the ready line, ynked back on the slides of their weapons, then held muzzles at the ready.

A quick call from the overhead speakers and both West and Gaines brought their weapons up and began firing.

While he did his best to concentrate solely on his own target, between the excited shouts of motivation from his own Marines as well as those coming from Gaines people, West couldn't help taking the occasional glance over at his counterpart's target.

While West was making a good showing, much better than his last qual, he had to admit Gaines was keeping a tight group.

"Damn," muttered West as he watched Gaines put another in the bullseye.

Refocusing his attention, West continued to fire.

Breath in, breath out, natural pause…

Steady trigger pull…

Pop…

Time and again…

Switch mags…

Breath in, breath out, natural pause…

Steady trigger pull…

Pop…

As the slide locked back after his last round, West dropped the empty magazine out, cleared the weapon, and waited.

Gaines fired off two more rounds after West finished.

As the call echoed out from overhead, Gaines likewise unloaded and cleared her weapon.

Rather than letting the targets ascend out of view, Gaines motioned up at the range officer to run the targets up to the firing line.

As both targets stopped close enough for Gaines and West to view their handiwork, they each stepped up, quickly counting the number of holes.

When he'd finished counting his own, West looked over at Gaines and couldn't help but grin.

Gaines might have gotten the best of West at the pull-up bar, but West had just edged out Gaines for rounds in the bullseye.

Nodding her head in concession, Gaines slowly extended a congratulatory hand to West.

As West took hold of Gaines' proffered hand, Gaines continued to nod her head slightly in genuine respect for West's much improved demonstration of marksmanship.

From behind the firing line, however, the reaction was far less muted as West's Marines practically exploded.

"And _that_ is how we do _that_, Captain!" shouted Wilson.

Taking his target from the frame, West handed the sidearm over to Gaines and then made his way back over to his Marines.

West tried to keep from appearing smug as he stood there holding his target.

But what the hell, he was a Marine, and a victory was a victory…

And after the last couple months, even a small victory like this felt a touch vindicating.

"Hoo-rah," grinned West as he held up the target for his Marines to see.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Commander's Quarters**

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Sean Kelso slowly leaned back in seat, looking aimlessly up at the soundproofing tiles on the ceiling as he popped a leg up onto an open drawer on his desk.

"I heard there was a bit of excitement yesterday on the small arms range," muttered Adrian Kelso as he settled into a chair opposite his son.

"I wouldn't necessarily call it 'excitement'," replied Sean evenly as he slowly closed his eyes. "Captain Gaines let those soldiers her team rescued participate in a small arms qual."

"I'm surprised your XO went along with that," sighed Adrian as he shifted around a bit in the seat, trying to get more or less comfortable. "Burke's a pretty big stickler when it comes to following the manual."

"Oh, she did object," nodded Sean as he glanced over at his father, then settled back, closing his eyes a bit. "But in the end, letting them onto the range seemed harmless enough a suggestion, and it gave them something to do other than simply sit there in the barracks."

"Any egos get bruised?" grinned Adrian as he reached down and slowly unzipped the closure on the small duffle bag he'd brought over with him.

"I don't see how they could have been," shrugged Sean, his eyes still closed as he gently rocked back and forth in his seat. "They shot well enough to be sure, but Gaines' Marines also gave a pretty good showing."

Reaching into the bag, Adrian pulled out a half-empty bottle of ambrosia and set it down on his son's desk with a gentle thud. Popping one eye open at the sound of the bottle, Sean saw what his father had placed on the desk. With a slight grin, he then reached over, pulled open yet another drawer and retrieved two shot glasses. Glasses in hand, Sean then leaned forward enough to set them down beside the bottle as his father quickly unscrewed the cap.

"Still, something to be said for a bunch of unknowns coming into your house and giving a good account of themselves in your own trade," said Adrian as he poured out two neat shots, taking care not to spill. "I mean, how would _you_ feel if someone showed up and tried to assume command of this fleet?"

"I'd _welcome_ it," replied Sean flatly as he reached over and took one of the full glasses.

Leaning back into his chair once more, shot glass in hand, Sean looked back across the table and noticed the somewhat dubious expression on his father's face.

"You mean to tell me that if by some off chance some Admiral aboard a Battlestar had managed to survive the Cylon attack and showed up here, you'd just turn over command without giving it a thought?" asked Adrian as he too settled back into his seat, hands firmly around his own shot glass.

"In an instant," replied Sean as he tossed back the shot, swallowing it in a single gulp. "I tried to turn command of this fleet over to you, or don't you recall?"

"Wasn't my place to take command," replied Adrian dismissively as he too downed his shot, though with somewhat less gusto.

"You took command of the situation during your escape from first Libran and then Sagittaron," countered Sean evenly as he set his empty glass back down on the desk.

"Still, it wasn't my place once we linked up with _Galactica_," shrugged Adrian as he sat cradling his empty glass. "Senior ship gets senior authority and Active Duty trumps Retiree. You may not like, you don't _have_ to like, almost better if you don't, but this fleet is _yours_ to command."

Letting out a long, tired sigh, Sean once again closed his eyes as he felt the first tingling of the ambrosia making its way into his system.

"I take it the recon Raptors haven't had any luck?"

"No, none," sighed Sean as he continued to drift lazily behind his closed eyes. "Going on a week now, and nothing. No additional debris, no wireless signals, _nothing_. If there's a human fleet, or an alien fleet for that matter, out there lurking about, they're very adept at remaining hidden. CAG's are starting to bitch that they're running out of places to look."

Taking a deep breath, Adrian reached up and gently massaged a small knot in his neck.

"I don't buy that," he said. "Space is nothing if not damned big."

"Mmmm," nodded Sean lazily. "Like trying to find one particular grain of sand on a beach. Hell, we could have flown right by them by a matter of only a few hundred thousand kilometers and never even know it."

"Well, ambiguities aside, the air group seems to be getting their edge back at least," offered Adrian as he sat looking over at his clearly fatigued son. "I was listening to the fighter-tac this morning, sounds like they're starting to pull things back together."

"That they are, thank the gods," muttered Sean evenly as he continued to gently rock in his seat. "I've also tasked Colonel Runel with putting together some force-on-force scenarios for the rest of the fleet. Mixed bag; fighters versus capital ships, convoy escort, ship-to-ship; give the rest of us a chance to brush up on the combat manual as well."

"Not a bad idea," nodded Adrian. "That's just thing a good Commander _would_ do."

Sean looked somewhat askance over at his father.

For his part, Adrian simply sat looking back over at his son somewhat nonchalantly.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"I just find it funny that you keep thinking I know what I'm doing here, Dad," replied Sean flatly.

"And I think it's strange that you keep thinking you're not doing an excellent job," countered Adrian. "Take it from me, _anyone_ would have a hell-of-a time keeping things together under the current circumstances."

"I'm not a line Commander, Dad," scoffed Sean as he slowly leaned back into his seat again. "Frak, if the Cylons had waited just a couple of weeks, I wouldn't have even been aboard this ship, much less in command of it."

"But they didn't and you are," snapped back Adrian, a sharp edge creeping into his tone. "Fraking accept it already, Sean; you _are_ the Commander of this fleet."

Letting out a long sigh, Sean simply cast his eyes back towards the ceiling tiles.

"I may be the Commander, Dad, but I'm also an engineer," began Sean as he gently shook his head. "When an engineer looks at a problem, it's all about facts, schematics, equations; punch in the numbers, find the solutions, turn the spanner wrench."

"Command is no different."

"Oh, it most certainly _is_ different, and in a very fundamental way," countered Sean quickly. "Command is about people. It's about learning what makes each person tick inside, and in that critical moment when it's most vital, tugging at that one thread of fortitude that can get them to do the impossible. I just don't know if I have that in me."

"What the _frak_ are you talking about?" muttered Adrian, shaking his head slightly. "You took this ship with an under-strength crew right into a combat zone, you rescued thousands of dispirited personnel from certain death, then lead them in an escape about as epic as anything chronicled in the scriptures from right under the noses of the Cylons."

"I did it because I had to, because I had no other choice."

"And that is as much a definition of what it is to command as anything," replied Adrian flatly.

"But how do I _know_ what I'm doing is the right thing?" countered Sean. "I am preparing to take this fleet, take what could very well be the last surviving remnants of our entire civilization, to _war_."

"No, that's entirely the wrong perspective," snapped Adrian. "What you are doing is getting this fleet ready to _defend_ what could be the last surviving remnants of our civilization. There's a distinction."

"But how can I simply ask these people to take that risk?" sighed Sean, reaching up with his hand to massage the sizeable knot forming in his neck. "We have so little, hell, practically _no_ hard information. And yet, here I am making these decisions that could inject us into a struggle that could, no, that _will_ cost us lives. And they're all supposed to accept that it's the right course of action based upon, what, my word alone? How can I ask that of our people, after all they've already lost and suffered, how can I ask them to sacrifice even more?"

"Simple," replied Adrian so curtly that it drew Sean's attention back from the ceiling tiles. "You don't ask them, you _order_ them."

"_Order_ them?" muttered Sean dubiously.

"That's right," replied Adrian evenly.

For a moment the two of them sat there, staring at one another.

"Fine, you keep saying you're just an engineer, I'll put this together for you like any other engineering equation," began Adrian evenly, leaning back in his seat. "What gives our people the best chance of survival; attempting to make contact with a human fleet or turning around and heading back into deep space? Hard facts, as you have them now; people, supplies, recon data; where does our best chance lie?"

"But…"

"No, no 'buts'," snapped Adrian, shaking his head adamantly. "With the facts we have in hand right now, where does our best chance for survival lie?"

"Facts in hand?" sighed Sean, pausing as he mulled the thought over in his mind. "Notions of Earth and the Thirteenth tribe aside, our best chance lies with finding a human fleet."

Nodding his head, Adrian once again reached for the bottle, gathered the two shot glasses back together and began pouring another round. As he finished, Adrian Kelso took hold of one of the shot glasses and slowly slid the other across the desk towards his son.

"And that is what you use to guide you," sighed Adrian as he leaned back, shot glass in hand. "As long as you make your choices, in good faith, for the good of the fleet, then it's the right choice."

"Even if people die?" asked Sean pointedly.

Taking a deep breath, Adrian tossed back the shot, then looked over at his son, his eyes on Sean, but his thoughts seemingly focused on some far distant memory.

"Sometimes the right choice is the most difficult to make. Sometimes, even the _right_ choice still ends up costing you lives."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"This is a drill, this is a drill; all hands, Action Stations, Action Stations; set Condition One throughout the ship. I say again, this is a drill, this is a drill; all hands, Action Stations, Action Stations; set Condition One throughout the ship. Section heads report to Combat upon manning of Action Stations."

As Lieutenant Cortez's voice filtered out through the overhead One-MC, Commander Sean Kelso focused his attention in on the DRADIS screen, his mind counting the passing seconds as he focused his attention on the cluster of vessels nearing the _Galactica_.

"Copy, that," snapped Burke evenly as she set her handset back into place on the side of the plot table. "All decks, all stations report Action Stations manned and ready, Commander."

"Time?"

"For the record; one minute, thirty-two seconds," replied Burke as she glanced up at the timer running on the screen next to DRADIS.

"Not bad," muttered Kelso as he continued to eye the DRADIS. "Crew's response times are getting better."

"_Or_ someone tipped them off as to when we were having the drill today," muttered Burke as she suspiciously eyed several of the surrounding CIC personnel.

"Maybe, but we'll worry about that later," sighed Kelso as he continued to watch the cluster of contacts on the screen overhead. "Right now let's work the problem before us, Major."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke evenly, returning her attention to the DRADIS. "Give us run-down, Mr. Cortez."

"The _Enceladus_…"

"No, Mr. Cortez," snapped Kelso flatly, looking over his shoulder at the surprised young officer. "Give us a combat report; number, type, disposition."

"Aye, sir," said Cortez, turning back to the screen on his station. "Enemy fleet consists of nineteen ships; one battlecruiser, two destroyers, two medium carriers, four large armored transports and ten small transports. Combat ships are deployed in a protective envelope around the bulk of the transports. All ships running perpendicular to our present bearing, maintaining one-quarter."

"Very good, Mr. Cortez," nodded Kelso as he looked down at the clipboard lying on the plot table before him.

Attached to the clipboard was the exercise order.

As the fleet's training exercises had moved up from fighter-on-fighter to larger capital ship engagements, Colonel Thadius Runel had managed to work up several very challenging scenarios, but none thus far as tricky as this one.

Today, it would be _Galactica_ against everyone else.

On the surface, such a matchup might not seem like such a daunting prospect.

But Commander Sean Kelso was steadily becoming more than a layman.

To be sure, _Galactica_ had a clear advantage in terms of sheer firepower, outgunning every other ship in the fleet. The latest computer systems, the newest mechanical hardware, her engines alone could outpace the rest of the fleet, and her armor package would let her survive punishment that would render the rest little more than shattered debris.

But she was still just one ship.

For this run, Colonel Thadius Runel would have five combat vessels arrayed against _Galactica_. He had the advantage of numbers.

He also had the advantage of time.

Always the creative thinker, Runel had built a deadline into this scenario. While the Rules of Engagement specifically forbid the use of FTL's by combatant vessels, the scenario stated that unless _Galactica_ was able to bring her weapons to bear on the civilian transports, the primary target, the FTL's on the civilian ships would be 'restored', allowing then to execute an escape jump.

And the clock was running.

Glancing up, Commander Sean Kelso let out a long sigh as he watched the seconds tick away.

He now had twenty-five minutes and some change left.

"Status of the enemy fleet?"

"We remain CBDR with the main body, but so far they show no signs of altering course, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez.

"Have they launched fighters?"

"Negative, Commander."

"Helm, bring us up to one half."

"Helm answering, one half, aye, sir."

"Order main bow batteries to prepare one-to-one, HE to AP," called Kelso as he straightened up a bit. "Time to optimal firing range?"

"Batteries are plotting the fire order, time to firing range, three minutes," replied Cortez.

"I don't get it, Runel's just going to let us attack?" muttered Burke, shaking her head slightly as she continued to watch DRADIS.

Kelso was about to say something when Lieutenant Cortez called out.

"Change in heading and aspect on targets, Commander."

Even as the Cortez's words echoed out across CIC, Kelso watched as the neat cluster of ships began to disperse.

"Three ships have broken off the main body, Commander," continued Cortez. "One battlecruiser, two destroyers; accelerating to full, turning wide to our Port flank."

"The rest of the fleet is turning away, too," noted Burke evenly.

"Not a bad maneuver," sighed Kelso, leaning in over the plot table as he watched the opposing ships complete their turns.

As he began gently tapping his fingers on the plot table, Kelso mulled the situation over.

If they turned to engage Runel and the destroyers directly it would delay them long enough for the FTL's on the civilian ships to 'restored', allowing them to escape.

If they ignored Runel advance group, pushed on towards the main target, it would allow the Colonel to execute a wide flanking maneuver, allowing him to attack _Galactica_ from the side, or more likely, slip in astern of the Warstar.

And even if they were able to out-stride Runel's heavy-hitters, the Colonel had wisely hedged his bets, leaving the two carriers, _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ in escort of the civilians. Though not posing nearly as significant a threat militarily as _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_, they could still potentially slow _Galactica_'s advance long enough for the battlecruiser and two destroyers to catch back up.

The last place _Galactica_ needed to be was surrounded on five sides.

Glancing across the plot table at Burke, Kelso could see his XO was likewise mulling their limited options over, and judging by her expression, liking them even less than he was.

"Your thoughts, Major?"

"I think we should push on through, sir," replied Burke flatly, her eyes never leaving the DRADIS screen. "If we bring _Galactica_ up to flank speed, we should be able to slip past _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ before they are able to engage us from our Port flank. Once we've closed the distance, we could launch our air wing in one hard thrust at the civilians before the deadline."

"What about _Savitri_ and _Proteus_?" countered Kelso evenly as he returned his eyes to DRADIS, warily eyeing the _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ as they continued to churn out a wide turn towards _Galactica_'s Port flank. "Their fighters will be able to defend the fleet against a fighter assault."

"Blunt it, perhaps, but not stop it, Commander," replied Burke flatly. "Turn the tables on the numbers game; our air wing outnumbers both of theirs combined. We'll take losses, but enough of our ships should be able to punch through to the objective."

"Hegemony of force is on their side, though, Major," he said evenly. "Both _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ are carrying full wings of Mark Sevens. We're the ones carrying a mixed wing of Sevens, Sixes, Fours and Mark Twos."

"But some would make it through, sir," she reiterated flatly, her eyes never leaving the screen.

In spite of himself, Kelso couldn't help but glance back across the table at Major Burke. For his part, Kelso found the notion of pure attrition warfare distasteful. But as he heard the almost cavalier tone in his XO's voice, Kelso couldn't help but wonder; was it that this was merely an exercise or was Burke capable, truly capable, of distilling life-and-death down to a simple numbers game?

Commander Sean Kelso, somewhat troubled by that idea, hoped he'd never have to find out for certain.

Nevertheless, Kelso was able to muster a somewhat more convincing counterpoint to her suggestion.

Returning his attention to DRADIS, Kelso saw that _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ had completed their turn and were now running parallel along _Galactica_'s course, just outside of weapons range.

Taking a deep breath, Kelso continued to gently drum his fingers on the plot table.

"All right," he sighed. "They want a chase, we'll give it to them. Time to see just how fast this gallant lady can fly."

Gently nodding her head, Burke nevertheless kept her eyes locked on DRADIS.

Reaching down, Kelso snatched up the handset on his side of the plot table and toggled the switch for engineering.

"_Tyree, here_."

"Colonel Tyree, bring all main and auxiliary reactors to full."

"_Understood, Commander_," replied Tyree evenly.

Hanging the handset back up, Commander Sean Kelso looked over to Petty Officer Chapman at the Helm.

"Mr. Chapman, bring us up to flank speed, maintain pursuit course."

"Aye, sir, engines to flank speed," replied Chapman evenly as he imput the commands into the helm.

"Time to intercept?"

"We should be within strike range of the main body within eleven minutes," replied Lieutenant Cortez.

"Time till civilian fleet jumps?"

"Seventeen minutes," replied Burke evenly.

"That will be cutting it close."

Counting the seconds in his head, his fingers continuing to drum each one away, Kelso's eyes continued to take in the situation.

"Contact main battery plot, make sure they have a firing solution ready in case Runel turns his heavy-hitters in on our Port flank," muttered Kelso.

"Aye, sir."

"New contacts," called Lieutenant Cortez. "Escorting carriers are launching their fighters."

Even as Burke was reaching down for her handset, both she and Kelso watched as the _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ blossomed with tens of dozens of new signatures.

"Will they turn or will they hold in place?" muttered Kelso as he continued to watch the two carriers launch their fighters

As Burke relayed his order to plot a firing solution on the flanking _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_, Kelso continued to watch as the _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ launched their fighters into what was clearly a wide, defensive sphere around the civilian ships.

Taking a deep breath, Kelso leaned in over the plot table.

"Position and bearing on all opposing forces, Mr. Cortez?"

"Battlecruiser and destroyers maintaining parallel heading just outside maximum engagement line to our Port, approaching zero-niner-zero degrees a-Port," called Cortez instantly. "Main body maintaining course off our bow, approximately two hundred and forty fighters deployed in an air defense posture."

"Major Burke, call down to the flight deck, prepare a full sortie, all fighters," said Kelso evenly, his gaze never wavering. "Advise CAG to prepare for full fighter thrust on primary civilian targets once we've reach launch range."

"Aye, Commander," replied Burke evenly as she raised her handset back to her ear.

"Sir, change in speed and directional aspect readings on flanking force," called Lieutenant Cortez.

Refocusing his eyes back in on _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_, now almost directly off their Port flank, Commander Kelso watched as all three ships suddenly made a hard turn directly towards _Galactica_.

"What is he doing?" muttered Burke as she glanced back up at DRADIS. "Coming straight on like that, he won't be able to deliver a full broadside."

"No, but that's not what he wants to do," sighed Kelso, narrowing his eyes a bit as he leaned forward against the plot table. "Coming in like that they present the smallest possible cross section for our guns to target. Moreover, were this real, we'd be blasting our cannons at some of the thickest sections of their armor. They'd be able to take a significant amount of punishment while still launching off volleys directly into our comparatively weaker flank with their bow cannons."

"If we turn into their attack, though, Commander…" began Burke, her voice trailing off slightly as she noted Kelso gently shaking his head.

"If we turn into their attack, they could just as easily turn back away before weapons range, forcing us to chase them down," said Kelso, grinning slightly, begrudgingly. "And while we waste time chasing them down, the civilian fleet only gets further and further away."

"So we lose either way," muttered Burke, chewing on the inside of her lip for a moment as she mulled the situation over in her mind.

"We either take one hell-of-a pounding amidships chasing down our objective, or we fend off the attack, but the civilian fleet gets away."

Still shaking his head slightly, Kelso simply glared up at the DRADIS screen, trying to devise some way around the deadlock.

"So what are your orders, Commander?" asked Burke pointedly.

"Well, Major," he finally said, letting out a long sigh. "I don't like the idea of anyone just taking potshots at _Galactica_. If Colonel Runel wants a fight, I say we give it to him."

At that, Burke almost grinned.

"Helm, prepare to come zero-niner-zero to Port, maintain flank speed," called Kelso as he glanced over at Petty Officer Chapman. "I want you to fly _Galactica_ right through the center of their advance, understood?"

"Yes, Commander," replied Chapman evenly as he began turning the massive vessel. "Coming to Port, zero-nine-zero degrees, engines maintaining flank speed."

"You don't think he'll turn away, do you, Commander?" muttered Burke, leaning in slightly over the plot table.

"Turning away from our counterattack would be the tactically prudent thing to do," replied Kelso as he returned his attention to the screen overhead.

"But?"

"Colonel Runel doesn't strike me as the kind of person who runs from a fight," continued Kelso as he watched the ships arraying themselves on DRADIS. "I get the feeling he'd like the idea of taking _Galactica_ down, even if it's only a simulation."

"Lamenting over his missed chance at Leto's Twins to see how that battlecruiser of his would fair against the 'Big-_G_', eh?" muttered Burke, smirking a bit.

"Exactly."

"Well, he's about to find out," said Burke, her hawkish eyes on DRADIS. "Optimum firing range in three minutes."

With that, CIC settled into a disquieted lull, waiting, counting the seconds as the _Galactica_ closed in on Runel and his ships.

"Contact!" shouted Lieutenant Cortez suddenly, his voice cutting through the air so crisply, with such urgency that it instantly caught Kelso's attention. "Commander, I have two contacts at extreme range."

"Real world?" snapped Kelso, glancing back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Cortez.

"Real world, sir," replied Cortez with a curt nod. "Two unknown contacts, no Colonial ID, at bearing one-four-eight carom zero-niner-four to Starboard-Aft."

With that, Commander Sean Kelso felt a surge of adrenaline course into his system. Simulations were one thing, but real unknowns…

"Helm, hard about, turn us into the approach vector of those two ships," called Commander Kelso as he looked up at DRADIS.

"Aye, sir, coming about," replied Chapman as he began bringing the _Galactica_ around to face the new contacts.

With _Galactica_ turning towards them, the two contacts reported by Cortez began to slip onto the edge of the DRADIS screen. Watching them, Kelso reached down and snatched up his handset.

"Put me through to the fleet."

"You're on, Commander," snapped Petty Officer Rocca from the Communications station.

"This is _Galactica_-Actual, to all units, signal-Buster; I say again, your signal is Buster; operation cancelled," snapped Kelso as he continued to eye the two contacts closing in on DRADIS. "_Galactica_ is tracking two unknowns entering extreme DRADIS range."

"Enceladus_-Actual to _Galactica_-Actual, orders_?"

"Immediate recall, all ships, all fighters, pull your ships back immediately into a full defensive posture around civilian fleet, spool up for possible FTL jump to emergency rally point Bravo-One-One-Zero," replied Kelso evenly as the two unknown contacts continued to close in. "Current track has them far enough out, they might not have detected any other ships in our fleet."

"_This is Pacifica-_Actual_, I noticed you didn't mention anything about _Galactica_ returning to the main body; what have you got in mind over there_?"

"One step at a time," smiled Kelso evenly. "Just get your ships ready to jump out of here at the first sign of trouble."

"_Understood_."

With that, Commander Kelso hung his handset back up on the side of the plot table as he watched the _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ heel about and make for the rest of the fleet.

"Flight deck reports they have twenty Vipers, safeties off, ready for launch on your order," said Burke evenly as she stood opposite of his, handset to her ear.

"How long to get the rest of the air wing ready, just in case those ships aren't alone?" asked Kelso evenly as he looked across to his XO.

"Fifteen minutes," replied Burke, shaking her head slightly.

"Have Chief Copeland light a fire under her knuckledraggers," countered Kelso, cocking his head slightly as he watched the two unknown craft continue to close in. "Those could be recon, or they could be the lead element of a much larger force."

"Understood, sir," replied Burke flatly as she returned her attention to the handset.

"Any more data, Mr. Cortez?"

"DRADIS return indicates craft are small," answered Cortez. "Roughly the same size as our Vipers or Raptors."

"Fighters?"

"Possibly, sir."

"Fleet reports they have spooled up their FTL's and are prepared to jump to emergency rally coordinates, sir," called Petty Officer Rocca.

"What about fighter coverage?" called Commander Kelso, his eyes never leaving the two unknown contacts.

"_Savitri_ and _Proteus_ are still retrieving their birds from the training-op, sir," replied Rocca. "Both are prepping their alert Viper force, forty total strong."

"Have them hold their ready Vipers for now, but bring all main batteries online for possible suppressive action."

"Aye, sir."

"Any change on the unknown contacts, Lieutenant Cortez?"

"No, sir, holding steady, CBDR almost directly off our bow now, sir."

Lightly drumming his fingers, Kelso mulled the drastic change in their situation over in his mind.

Two unknown contacts, closing in.

Did they know _Galactica_ was there?

Were they from a human fleet or were they the aliens?

"Keep a track on them," snapped Kelso as he continued to lightly drum his fingers on the plot table. "If they break eighteen-hundred, I want four of our birds in the air to intercept."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, continuing to juggle her attention between the handset pressed to her ear and the screens overhead.

"Displaying perimeter marker, now, sir," called Lietuenant Cortez.

On the DRADIS display a new line appeared encircling _Galactica_ denoting the eighteen hundred mark Kelso had designated.

Already, the two contacts were closing in rapidly on the imaginary border. As they continued to close to eighteen hundred, neither contact changed their heading, instead, holding on a course that would bring them straight to _Galactica_.

"Are they not detecting us?" muttered Burke, her attention on the screen overhead in spite of the handset pressed to her ear.

"Or are they detecting us, but just don't care?" countered Kelso evenly as he continued to watch the two contacts.

"Range is now eighteen hundred, Commander," announced Lieutenant Cortez, his voice subtly urgent.

"Get out birds out of the tubes, Major," snapped Kelso as he watched the two unknowns cross the barrier line.

"Launch alert Vipers."

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, Kelso watched as _Galactica_'s fighters appeared on the screen, four total, sallying forth on an intercept course for the contacts.

As _Galactica_'s own fighters raced off towards the two closing ships, Kelso continued to drum away the seconds on the plot table.

"Time till our ships make visual range?"

"Seven minutes, Commander," replied Cortez.

"Push the fighter-tac overhead, Rocca."

Moments later, the overhead speakers came to life with the wireless chatter between the Viper pilots.

"_Hardcase, Lowball, prepare to break left in case these guys decide to punch through us_."

"_Copy that, Longrifle, we'll hold low at your eight_."

"_Gods, they aren't changing course, don't they know we have them outnumbered and dead to rights_?"

"_Don't count'em out till you have their silhouettes on you cockpit, Fribat; they don't know us, but we don't know them either, just keep your eyes on DRADIS till we've got a firm visual._"

For several tense moments, Kelso watched as the unknown contacts and the signals denoting his own Vipers continued to close on one another.

"_Longrifle to _Galactica_, we've got contacts locked in DRADIS, engagement range in six minutes, what are your orders_?"

Snatching up his handset, Kelso motioned for Petty Officer Rocca to pipe him through to CAG.

"Longrifle, this is _Galactica_-Actual," began Kelso as he returned his attention to the closing signals on the display overhead. "We have no firm data to give, unknown whether contacts are hostile or potential-friendly, close to visual per intercept protocol."

"_And if they engage, sir_?"

"I sent out four Vipers, I want four Vipers to land back on this deck," replied Kelso flatly. "You are authorized to fire if fired upon, but, avoid engagement if possible."

"_Understood, Actual. I take it you'd at least like us to get some pretty pictures with the gun-cams_?"

"Affirmative, Longrifle."

* * *

><p>His eyes on the DRADIS display on his console, Major Culver watched as the contacts continued on a direct course.<p>

"Okay, boys, you heard the man," began Culver as he looked out past the canopy. "Actual wants some vacation photos."

"_Let's just hope they're in the mood to smile_," muttered his wingman, Captain Danny 'Fribat' Hardge.

"We'll know in four minutes," sighed Culver, squinting a bit as he continued to peer out past his canopy. "Hardcase, Lowball, you two in position?"

"_Affirmative, Longrifle_," replied Lieutenant Sandra 'Lowball' Arnette

For several tense moments, the flight of Vipers continued on an intercept course, the eyes of the four pilots intently hunting the black depths of space before them for the two interlopers.

Gently flexing his fingers around the control stick, Culver's mind raced. What would happen when they made contact with the two bandits? Were they alien ships like the ones Gaines' team had brought down? If so, how would Vipers fare against them in open space? Or were the two unknown contacts human ships, and if so, would they still be looking for a fight?

"_Got'em_," snapped Lieutenant Hal 'Hardcase' Oberman. "_Tally two, low at your eight o'clock, Longrifle_."

Glancing out in the direction indicated by Oberman, Culver quickly caught sight of the faint engine contrails against the stars.

"Wherever they're going they look to be in quite a rush," muttered Culver as he noted the length of the contrails.

"_Well, on the bright side, this close, they're definitely not Cylon Raiders_," said Lowball.

Bright side indeed.

Although Culver was tempted to remind Arnette that Cylons were no longer the only possible hostiles they might contend with, he didn't have time as the two ships suddenly veered hard away from his approaching flight of Vipers.

"They're rabitting," snapped Culver, his already racing pulse quickening a bit. "Longrifle to _Galactica_, current course will take them out of our airspace, do you want us to pursue?"

"_Negative, Longrifle_," replied a voice over wireless Culver instantly recognized as Commander Kelso's. "_Since they chose not to engage, let's not push our luck by chasing them down. Get all the images you can, and once they've crossed back out of _Galactica_'s DRADIS range, bring your birds back to the barn._"

"Understood."

While his gun cameras continued to take footage of the now retreating contacts, Culver kept a keen eye on DRADIS.

While it was possible the ships had some sort of FTL ability, Culver had a gut feeling from the way they were configured that they were looking at something more akin to a fighter, more like his own Viper than a Raptor.

If so, their carrier likely wasn't very far away.

As the engine contrails of the two ships faded against the backdrop of infinite space, Culver couldn't help but feel a sneaking suspicion that something else lay very close by, just outside of DRADIS range.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Command Operations Center**

"If you're right, Major, we may have been casting our search net too wide," muttered Commander Sean Kelso as he looked down at the gun camera images lying on top of the large operations table.

As he continued to digest Major Culver's theory, that some unseen carrier might be lurking much closer than they'd initially thought, Commander Sean Kelso slowly looked up at the assemblage of senior military officers around the operations table.

Picking up one of the photos, Kelso turned and extended it out towards Captain Gaines.

"Do these resemble the ships your team engaged down on the moon's surface, Captain?" asked Kelso as Gaines took hold of the image.

"No sir, not at all," replied Gaines instantly, shaking her head slightly, seemingly in relief. "These are _completely_ different from the craft my team brought down."

"You seem pretty certain, Captain," muttered Colonel Runel as he continued to examine the picture he had lying in front of him. "How can you be sure?"

"Silhouettes are all wrong, Colonel," replied Gaines as she held up the image and pointed at the two craft. "The craft we engaged were more of a tri-wing design, all projections extending equidistantly from the main body."

"Well, whoever they are, they're armed to bear," muttered Colonel Webber as she stood stooped over one of the images, passing a small magnifying lens over it. "I count at least half a dozen missiles each, packed in under their wings."

Looking over at another one of the photos lying on the table, Kelso thought he could see the barest outlines of the ordnance Webber was talking about.

"All the more reason to think they're not affiliated with the aliens, Commander," continued Gaines. "The craft we saw had no slung ordnance or external hardpoints."

Letting out a sigh, Gaines handed the picture back to Kelso, who promptly dropped it down with the others lying on the operations table.

"So, if it's not the aliens," muttered Major Ambrose as he looked out at the assemblage of officers. "Then they must be from Earth."

"That's supposition," muttered Commander Kelso as he leveled a stern gaze towards Ambrose.

"Well, sir, with respect, where else could these other human beings be from if not Earth?" countered Major Ambrose evenly. "Tales of lords and gods aside, most scholars agreed that the accounts of the exodus from Kobol are more or less accurate overall; Twelve tribes left Kobol and founded the Colonies, and the Thirteenth went to Earth."

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Kelso mulled over the point Major Ambrose had made. From the looks of the other faces around the table, it seemed most of the other assembled officers were prepared to accept that assessment as well.

"Okay, for the sake of simplicity we'll work from that assumption for the time being," conceded Commander Kelso evenly. "But, it also doesn't leave this room until we have more concrete evidence, understood?"

At that, each of the senior officers nodded in agreement.

"Sir, if I may," muttered Gaines as she motioned over at the small stack of photos. "Why don't I show these photos to West?"

"You think he'll be able to identify them for us?" asked Runel simply.

"I think it may be worth a shot, Colonel," replied Gaines evenly. "We know these ships aren't Colonial, probably aren't Cylon either. I'm betting they aren't with the aliens, so unless, gods forbid, there's a _fifth_ option out there, they must be from a human fleet."

"But even if he does recognize them, how are we going to know that?" asked Major Ambrose.

Pausing, Gaines looked back over at Major Ambrose, then, holding his gaze, she pointed at the photos lying on the table, then pointed at herself, shaking her head 'no' as she did so.

"Ok, point taken," muttered Major Ambrose, grinning slightly.

"Any other thoughts?" asked Commander Kelso, himself chuckling slightly at Gaines' demonstration.

"Well, sir, if Major Culver is correct that these craft are similar to our own Vipers, then I agree, there's probably a ship if not a fleet out there a hell-of-a lot closer than we originally thought," stated Major Jasper evenly.

"Lieutenant Cortez, do you think you can track back along the approach and departure vectors of these two craft, plot a new search pattern?" asked Kelso evenly as he looked over at his Tactical Watch Officer.

"It would still be a wide cone to search, sir," Cortez as he looked down at a plot chart he brought with him.

"But potentially not as wide as the fruitless pattern we've had our Raptors scouring the last couple of days," countered Commander Kelso almost immediately. "Get back to CIC, Major Culver you go with him, and have me a new recon mission ready in six hours."

"How many birds, Commander?" asked Culver as he began making his way over to Cortez.

"Six Raptors," replied Commander Kelso flatly.

With a nod, Culver and Cortez gathered up the plot chart and quickly made their way out the entryway.

Looking back around at the other officers remaining in the operations center, Commander Kelso let out a long sigh.

"Now, to problem number two," sighed Commander Kelso evenly as he glanced around at his senior officers. "From what I'm hearing from the civilian captains, word of these two ships skirting the fleet has spread through the rumor-mill like a wildfire."

"Not that we could have kept a lid on it," sighed Colonel Runel as he slowly sifted through a few other images. "Damned near every ship in the fleet picked them up on DRADIS."

"Nevertheless, we need to figure out what to release to the general public," continued Commander Kelso evenly.

"Considering the implications, maybe we should just consider disclosing everything we know," offered Major Jasper. "I mean, they already know we've had contact with and are searching for something out there other than resources. Gods, I've had more than a few members of my own crew asking point-blank if we've found Earth."

"The civvies might not be very reassured if we tell them the whole story," countered Major Ambrose. "Damned if they're not jumpy enough as it is."

"Well, it's not as if they don't have reasons to be," sighed Major Tyle as she took a sip from her now-cold cup of coffee, grimacing a bit. "Ever since we jumped away from the Colonies, they've been huddled up on a bunch of hulks and passenger liners with little to do but lament for the last several months while we tried to figure out where this fleet is heading."

"And now in the space of a few days, literally centuries of scientific certainty has been turned on its ear," interject Captain Gaines. "Not only have we found human life from somewhere other than the Colonies, but for the first time in recorded history we've come across honest to the gods intelligent alien life; even now I keep expecting to wake up and find out it's all been just a dream."

"Or a nightmare," sighed Kelso heavily as he looked around at his assembled military commanders. "Well, we'll be holding elections this week for an interim administrative council, maybe they'll start to settle down a bit once we have some form of non-military authority in place."

"If we wait until there was an elected council, we could pass on the information to them, let their own officials act as the information filter," offered Colonel Webber. "They might not react as badly if it comes from the mouths of the people they themselves elected."

"But even with an established government, there are still going to be those who seem to make a hobby out of distrusting authority," muttered Runel as he let out a long sigh. "Even if we were to just lay everything out for the civilians, there are still going to be dissenters, people who feel they're not being told the whole story since we didn't tell them before now."

"There's also just as good a chance of having a much more significant encounter with who or whatever is buzzing about out there before the council is actually sworn and seated," interjected Major Ambrose. "We'd have a hell-of-a time explaining after the fact if we got tangled in a full-fledged battle."

"All we can do is continue to work with the facts we have in hand, however thin they are thin as they are," cut-in Commander Kelso, his tone flat, even.

Several of the officers around the table simply nodded.

"So, for now, we'll continue to keep this need-to-know and go ahead with the recon plan," continued Kelso as he absently gathered together several of the photos in a pile. "Colonel Webber, Major Tyle, make sure your CAGs each have at least four Vipers on Ready-Alert at all times."

"Aye, sir," replied Webber as she slowly slid the few photos she'd been looking at over to Kelso.

"Understood, sir," said Tyle simply as she tossed her empty coffee cup in a trash bin.

"Let's not forget, people, we're looking to preserve our civilization here," continued Kelso as he collected the last couple of recon photos together. "And I know I've said it before, but I will say it again; until we have a better grasp on what's unfolding around us, all we can do is take this one step at a time."

"Just like a minefield," muttered Captain Gaines.


	3. Occam's Razor

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Marine Barracks**

As Captain Jordan Gaines made her way into the Marine Barracks section allotted to the human soldiers rescued from the moon surface, her mind was a rushing current of thoughts.

Only most of them had to do with the task she'd been given by Commander Kelso.

The others she was fighting to more or less ignore.

When the _Galactica_'s Tac-Ops Officer, Lieutenant Cortez had awoken her barely an hour ago, it would be an understatement to say Gaines had been in the grip of a particularly terrible nightmare.

It would also be a gross understatement to say that the nightmare was rare.

In truth, try as she might to ignore them, Captain Jordan Gaines had been suffering from nightmares just about every night since they'd arrived safely aboard the _Galactica_ after their harrowing action in Serenity Valley.

Post-traumatic stress…

Survivor's guilt…

She knew that in many ways she was a likely diagnosable for any number of psych problems. A bigger problem was that Gaines was also a bit too stubborn to simply admit it.

But now, following their experience on the moon, the nightmares had become almost too much to ignore anymore; ever since she'd seen those butchered human bodies the nightmares had begun haunting her with a vengeance.

Shaking her head, Gaines fought to try and excise her personal demons in the best way, really the _only_ way she knew; by immersing herself in her work.

So it was that Captain Jordan Gaines began making her way along the racks of slumbering troops. About halfway down, she came across what she presumed was one of West's soldiers standing firewatch.

As the man stepped up and issued a verbal challenge, Gaines let out a sigh and motioned around at the rows of racks.

"Nathan West?" she asked, uttering the words very deliberately to ensure she pronounced the name correctly.

Nodding his head, the firewatch motioned for Gaines to follow, leading her over to a rack at the far end of the compartment.

As he pointed over at the slumbering figure of West, Gaines nodded in appreciation and stepped over beside the rack.

As she looked down at the sleeping West, Gaines noted how his brow was covered in sweat, his breathing rapid, labored, every once in a while, his whole body would twitch.

For her part, Gaines thought she understood why; West was caught in the throes of a nightmare.

Twisted as the thought might have seemed to anyone else, Gaines was almost relieved to think that there was someone else who could at least empathize with her feelings, even if they couldn't yet really talk about it with one another.

As West twitched once more with whatever thoughts were tormenting his sleeping mind, Gaines slowly reached down and nudged his shoulder.

Shaking his shoulder a little more forcefully than she'd intended, Gaines was only slightly startled when his hand snapped up and grabbed hold of her wrist.

His eyes wild, his breathing even more rapid, he looked up at her, not quite focusing at first.

But as it seemed to finally register who it was that was standing over him, West slowly let go of Gaines' wrist, his expression only somewhat apologetic.

Throwing back his sheet, West kicked his legs over the edge of the rack, wiped away the sweat from his forehead and then began rubbing at his eyes, no doubt trying to excise whatever image was still trapped in his mind from the nightmare.

Taking more control over his breathing, West finally looked up at Gaines.

"_Yes_?" he muttered.

Although she didn't know what he'd actually said, Gaines was clearly able to discern the questioning look in his expression.

Smiling weakly, Gaines reached over and set the small carry-all bag she had in her hand down on the rack beside West.

Unzipping it, she withdrew the pictures of the two craft that had skirted the fleet the day before. Handing them over to West, she very deliberately pointed at the two planes in the image and then at West.

As he took hold of the pictures, Gaines thought from his expression alone she'd gleaned the answer she was looking for; upon seeing the two craft, West's eyes went wide as he practically jumped up to his feet.

Then, like her, West pointed at the two craft and then began almost feverishly pointing first at himself, then at the rest of his slumbering troops, nodding his head in an equally adamant fashion.

Looking back up at her, it was clear he had far more questions rattling around in his mind than their simple communication would allow him to ask.

Finally, he simply let out a frustrated sigh, looking back down at the photos, flipping through them almost wistfully.

"Well, at least we know they aren't the bad guys," sighed Gaines as she reached over and motioned for him to look inside.

Handing the photos back to Gaines, West reached over and opened the bag more fully. Reaching in with one hand, West drew back out a standard Colonial flight suit.

As he stood holding the 'jock-smock', West looked back over at Gaines with an even more curious look.

Damned language barrier.

If they'd been able to talk to one another, she'd simply be able to explain that Commander Kelso wanted him to go along with one of the Raptor recon units this morning.

But as it was, Captain Jordan Gaines had to find a way to pantomime that he was to put on the suit and meet her out in the corridor in fifteen minutes.

After she had done so, the act itself no small feat, West, no less of a curious expression on his face, simply nodded as he more fully withdrew the flight suit from the carry-all.

As she once again pantomimed the time restriction, pointing first to her watch, then at the small hand, then holding up all five fingers three times with her right hand, Gaines again received a somewhat less questioning look from West.

No, less questioning, but more seemingly a touch annoyed.

For her part, Gaines felt a measure of sympathy; it was never fun to be awoken in the middle of the night only to be shuffled off to gods-only-knew where. She imagined it was doubly annoying when you couldn't even carry on a real verbal conversation as to the where or why.

As she stepped away, Gaines glanced back over at West as he seemed to be attempting to figure out how the one-piece 'jock-smock' was meant to be worn. As West began to slip his leg into the flight suit, however, she trusted he would be able to figure out the frankly self-explanatory workings of the one-piece outfit.

Glancing back down at her watch, Gaines then stepped back out into the corridor.

* * *

><p>"What the hell was that about, Captain?" muttered Private Yates as he stood there watching West try to figure out the outfit he'd pulled from the bag Gaines had left behind.<p>

"Unless I miss my guess, they've made contact with some other IFOR units," muttered West as he absently handed the pictures of the two Hammerhead fighters over to Yates. "If so, we might be able to finally get some answers about what's going on and who these people are."

"I don't know, Captain," sighed Yates, shaking his head slightly. "I mean, from her reaction, it was almost like she was asking whether you recognized them from the photos, almost seemed like _she_ was the one who didn't recognize what a Hammerhead was."

"I noticed that too," said West as he paused and glanced over at Yates.

"But that makes even _less_ sense, sir," muttered Yates, his voice almost squeaking a bit. "If these people are IFOR, how the hell could they _not_ know what a Hammerhead was?"

"Damned if I know, Yates," sighed West as he slipped his arms into what he'd quickly realized was one of the flight suits he'd seen the pilots of the rescue craft wearing. "But I at least hope whatever she wants me for is important, waking me up in the middle of the night like this."

As he stood there, pulling the outfit more fully onto his shoulders, West reached down and began pulling the large zipper up, closing the front.

Wiggling a bit, West tried to get used to the feel of the outfit; the one-piece flight suit was a bit more robust than the flight suit he was used to wearing. Judging from the material and its thickness, he guessed that the suit was probably air-tight when worn properly. While it was possible to survive a vacuum for short periods of time in the standard USMC-issue flight suit, it was clearly not as well-built for longer periods of exposure as this outfit.

It was then that he looked down at his feet, subconsciously wiggling his toes in his socks. Reaching back over into the carryall, West was thankful when he saw that Gaines had remembered to include a set of matching boots.

Looking back up at the clock over on the wall, assuring himself that he'd managed to, hopefully, figure out all that straps, snaps and seals on the outfit within the time specified, West stood up and began making his way towards the entry hatch under the watchful gaze of Private Yates.

"Any word to pass on, Captain?" called Yates as West made his way toward the entryway.

"Just let Corporal Wilson know to take charge if I'm not back before reveille," replied West evenly. "Just go ahead and proceed with the daily routine."

"Hardly routine anything routine these days, Captain," countered Yates flatly.

"Can't argue with that," muttered West, not quite loud enough for Yates to hear.

Indeed, nothing had seemed 'routine' since long before he'd found himself trapped on the moon with the infantry and even less routine since they'd been rescued.

To be sure, they'd been able to eat three-square a day, had been given access to their weapons in order to clean them, the rest of their time being occupied by keeping their living space field-dayed, some light PT, most of the usual activities of shipboard life. West had even had the sense of mind to record the unit's scores on the recent pistol range for entry into their service records when they finally made it back to the US fleet.

But amongst his Marines there was still a lingering collective sense that they somehow 'didn't belong', that there was something just a little off about their current benefactors, peculiarities that couldn't simply be explained away as their being members of a foreign military.

With these and so many other questions swirling about in his mind, West stepped out into the corridor and found Gaines waiting there for him. With only the barest of smiles, Gaines quickly motioned for him to follow as she began making her way off along the corridor.

Since he knew damned well that he wouldn't be able to ask her where she was leading him, West was more-or-less content to simply take in as much as he could of his surroundings.

While most of the curious glances he and his Marines had gotten when they'd first come aboard from the ship's crew were by now no longer the norm, West was able to discern from the way most of the crewmembers they passed in the hall were moving with a sense of urgency that something was up. Indeed, even Gaines' demeanor seemed a bit charged, disquieted.

After what seemed like a veritable eternity, West had to remind himself of just how damned big this ship really was, he and Gaines stepped out onto what he saw was the ship's hangar.

Just as it had been when they'd first come aboard, West could see the area was bustling with activity. But, unlike before, indeed, like the other areas of the ship he'd already seen, there was a heightened sense of urgency as planes were taxied about.

At last, West realized that Gaines was leading him back over towards one of the smaller ships, one like those that had plucked him and his Marines off of the moon.

As she stepped up, Gaines exchanged a few quick words with the pilot, a strikingly attractive red-head, who glanced over at West for a moment, then nodded.

For a moment, Gaines stepped back over to West and motioned for him to stay where he was next to the craft. When he nodded, returning his attention to the activity around the hangar, Gaines stepped off towards another hatchway off of one of the aircraft service bays.

As Gaines disappeared from view, the red-headed pilot hopped down off the winglet of the ship he was standing next to and stepped up to West.

As she stood there in front of him, she muttered off a few quick words. West was about to shake his head, indicating he didn't understand when she motioned down at her own flight suit, then for him to turn around.

She wanted to make sure he had the suit on correctly.

Nodding his head, West held his arms up and began slowly turning as the female pilot began checking the straps and seals on his suit from head-to-toe. Taking that as a cue that he was correct about the suit being airtight, West was thankful someone had had the foresight to check to make sure he'd put the outfit on properly. And from what he could tell, he had, mostly, with the pilot only making a few adjustments to some of the straps.

As he completed his turn, she smiled and held-up a thumbs-up to him before turning and hopping back up onto the winglet.

As he continued to watch the activity around the hangar space, West obliquely wondered just how many fighters and transports they had aboard this ship. The hangar deck itself was large with roughly three dozen planes being worked on or moved about. But from what he remembered of the actual landing deck during their original approach, he guessed that there might be still more hangar sections like this one beyond the two massive hatches at either end of the space.

It was as he was wondering this that Gaines remerged from the hatch she'd ducked into, now like him outfitted in one of the flight suits. When he saw that, West had to admit to being somewhat relieved. Communication being what it was West didn't like the idea of going off on whatever assignment these people apparently had planned for him without having the closest thing they had to a liaison along for the ride as well.

As Gaines stepped back up to him, she called out to the red-headed pilot, who had herself ducked back inside the small ship. Nodding her head, the pilot gave Gaines whatever answer she'd been inquiring about, doubtless about whether the woman had performed a check on West's flight suit.

Apparently satisfied with the answer she received, Gaines held up one of the flight helmets she was carrying, handing it to West.

Giving it a quick once over, West saw that it wasn't too dissimilar from the one he was used to in a Hammerhead. As he looked back up at Gaines, West watched as she slipped the other helmet she was carrying into place over her own head, making a very deliberate show of how the helmet locked into place with the metal collar around the neck of the flight suit.

Putting the helmet she given him into place, West did his best to likewise lock the collar into place, but in the end conceded with a hand gesture that he needed Gaines' assistance.

Once his counterpart had firmly locked his helmet in place, Gaines herself gave him and his flight suit another once-over, presumably double-checking the pilot's work. As she stood back up, gave him a thumbs-up, which West returned, Gaines motioned for him to make his way up into the waiting craft as he heard the dull whine of the ship's engines starting up.

With Gaines close behind, West scrambled up the winglet into the compartment of the small ship. With a quick motion, Gaines indicated for West to take a seat beside the large computer panel in the rear of the craft as she herself made her way up to the seat beside the red-headed pilot. Another person in one of the flight suits scrambled up the winglet a moment later and took his place in the seat in front of the rear computer panel, toggling a switch as he sat down that immediately lowered the side entry hatch.

While the pilot in him watched intently as the ship's crew prepped it for flight, West couldn't help but feel like a proverbial fifth wheel, with appreciably little else for him to do but _watch_.

Hell, the photos Gaines had shown him aside, West still had no real clue why he'd been woken up first place.

There must have been more of a reason than to simply bring him along for a joyride.

Nevertheless, Captain Nathan West did his best to simply stay out of the way as the small craft was taxied onto a platform. As the crew continued to prep the small ship, West felt it rock slightly as the elevator brought it up to the long flight deck.

With a slight thump, the small ship lifted up off the elevator platform, the pilot at the front deftly piloting the craft out along the massive flightdeck.

As they broke out into open space, West overhead Gaines mutter something to the pilot; he might not understand her, but he was at least beginning to recognize her voice, even over the intercom speakers in the helmet.

Glancing back over at him, both Gaines and the pilot grinned slightly as the red-head nudged the stick, presumably putting the small ship in a wide turn. As she did so, Gaines motioned for West to look out past the canopy.

At first, all West saw were endless stars.

But soon it became quite clear what it was Gaines wanted him to see.

Literally filling the forward canopy, the outline of the massive warship was truly awe-inspiring. While he was in no way even remotely familiar with the design of the ship, he had to admit, it was impressive to look out.

And it was a that moment that West realized that the massive warship wasn't alone.

Stretched out in a wide formation, several other ships rotated into view.

Though none of the other ships matched the first for size, he could easily see at least nine others in the formation that still dwarfed the _Saratoga_.

But even as he found himself even more awestruck, the sight also deepened the mystery for him; maybe, and only just _maybe_, one ship could have been constructed in secret, but how had a fleet of ten ships of such massive size been built by Earth without _some_ rumors leaking out?

With the hairs on his neck beginning to stand on end, West felt his stomach begin to twist as a new thought formed fully within his thoughts; what if they weren't from Earth after all?

No, it simply didn't make any sense that they wouldn't be; they were _human_.

But, could it be a Chig deception afterall?

No, what possible purpose would such an elaborate deception serve?

The last time he'd sat in on and intel briefing, granted that was over four months ago, the Chigs just about had Earth's forces against the proverbial ropes; IFOR had been falling back along the entire front with heavy casualties and losses. A deception made no sense considering a more straight-forward military victory seemed within their grasp.

Still; their unfamiliar uniforms, their language, those ships, it just didn't make sense that they _were_ from Earth either.

As he continued to watch the ships out beyond the canopy, West heard Gaines and the crew chattering back and forth over the speakers inside his helmet. As both the pilot and the man at the large computer panel toggled several switches on their respective controls, West could hear the ship's engines begin to throttle up, but didn't feel any corresponding increase in G-forces…

Suddenly, out past the canopy there was a sudden flash of light.

At almost the same moment that he saw the flash outside, West felt a peculiar sensation pass throughout his body, a vertigo that left him somewhat nauseous. He'd felt like this once before when they'd first been rescued from the moon but hadn't thought much of it, simply dismissing the odd sensation as exhaustion. But now, he wasn't so sure. Shaking his head, fighting back against the peculiar disorientation, West looked back up past the canopy and saw that all the massive ships were gone.

What the hell?

Where the hell had they gone?

That thought must have been telegraphed in his expression for as West glanced back over at Gaines, he could see her grinning at him slightly.

Surprisingly, West felt himself flush with anger.

_Where_ had their fleet gone?

Was it some form of stealth technology, an invisibility screen?

Were they deceiving him somehow?

But again, what the hell for?

For her part, Gaines must have picked up on his frustrated annoyance because her smirk quickly faded; hard to see how she couldn't, West was all but scowling at her. But then, Nathan West didn't like the idea that he was somehow being toyed with.

Quickly undoing the straps to her seat, Gaines made her way back over to West, motioning for him to follow her over beside the man at the large rear console.

With a few quick words to the man, Gaines waited as he reached down underneath the console and produced whatever it was she'd apparently asked for. Kneeling down onto the deck of the rear compartment, Gaines quickly unrolled what West soon realized was a map, presumably of the local star groups.

Releasing his own seat straps, West also knelt down beside her, not really any less frustrated, but at least attentive as he watched Gaines point at several markings on the chart. With a few more hand motions, West soon realized that Gaines was indicating the position of her fleet on the map. She then pointed at another area of the chart and snapped her fingers.

For a moment, West simply looked from Gaines, to the chart, then back at her, not understanding.

"What the hell are you trying to tell me?" he muttered, shaking his head slightly, his tone audibly exacerbated. "I _don't_ understand."

Letting out a clipped exhale, Gaines very deliberately repeated the motions.

Her fleet…

Snap of her fingers…

Another region of the chart…

As Gaines snapped her fingers a third time, West felt like he'd been hit by a rock.

"Son-of-a-_bitch_…" he muttered, his eyes locked with Gaines. "That flash of light I saw!"

With that, West pointed at the markings that represented Gaines' fleet, and like her, he snapped his fingers, then pointed at the other region on the map.

Grinning, Gaines nodded her head.

"I'll be a son-of-a…" he began, his voice trailing off as he looked around at the interior of the compartment. "Your ships have some form of _instant_ space-folding capability!"

Even as he said as much, West's mind began reeling with the profound implications presented by such a technology. Indeed, the part of him steeped in his training as a pilot and a Marine began going over all the dramatic impacts having space-folding technology could have militarily.

Currently, Earth forces were dependent of Eckerly drives for their main propulsion; a system that lowered the overall inertial mass of a vessel, allowing ships to travel at very high relativistic speeds, close to but still not quite at the speed of light. While very effective at moving large fleets around within and in areas very near to star systems, Eckerly drives were still impractical for truly interstellar distances. As such, in order to go from one star system to another in a practical amount of time, Earth forces were still very much dependent upon the unseen web of predictable wormholes to truly push into deep interstellar space.

For better or worse, the Chigs were similarly dependent on the wormhole network.

But, were any one side to gain the ability to travel at superluminal speeds, to jump from one point in space to another, it would have a truly decisive strategic advantage.

But even while his military mind grappled with the ramifications of that fact, there was another part of him, that sheltered portion of Nathan West which still harkened back to the more innocent period of his life before the war, a time where he had looked to the stars not as a hardened warrior, but as a hopeful explorer.

Dear God, the sheer number of worlds that could be colonized using such technology to travel…

Spread across dozens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of planets, humanity might never be in fear of extinction again.

As both sides of his intellect grappled with the awesome possibilities, Captain Nathan West began absently shaking his head in disbelief.

If they _were_ simply messing with his head…

But, hell, what would they possibly have to gain from deceiving him like this?

No, all things considered, the simplest answer made the most sense.

These people, whoever they _really_ were, had a viable faster-than-light drive system.

As his mind continued to mull over that fact, West heard an exchange of clipped chatter over the speakers in his helmet.

Damned if he didn't need a reminder of the language barrier; a thousand new questions bubbling over in his mind and they were still limited to simple hand gestures and body language.

Nevertheless, even on that simplest of communication levels, Nathan West could tell that something was wrong.

Hurriedly rolling the chart back up, Gaines motioned for West to get back to his seat. After practically tossing the rolled up chart back at the man at the rear console, Gaines vaulted back to her seat beside the pilot.

As he was about to reapply his seat straps, West glanced up and caught sight of the craft's small LIDAR display, or whatever it was the ship used…

…If they had FTL flight ability, who knows what else they had...

…as two signals appeared on the edge of the screen.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol  
><strong>**US 15****th**** Fleet – United Nations International Forces (UN IFOR)**

"_Saratoga_, this is Jack-of-Spades; tally one bandit at my five o'clock low. Not squawking ident; negative return on IFF. Do you copy?"

With his eyes locked on the contact on his LIDAR display, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes' expression was all but unreadable.

"_Jack-of-Spaces, this is _Saratoga_. Close to intercept with contact, obtain visual verification; if hostile, you are clear to engage._"

"Copy that, _Saratoga_, rolling in to intercept."

With that, Hawkes pulled hard over on his stick, throwing the nose of his Hammerhead into a steep turning dive that would bring him right up behind the contact on LIDAR.

As he continued to watch the contact on LIDAR, this morning's pre-flight briefing was playing back over in his mind. Yesterday, two Hammerheads from another squadron had apparently stumbled across what intel presumed was a large enemy fleet shadowing the Fifteenth Fleet, indeed, operating far too close for anyone's comfort. Although four intercept fighters had vectored in on the Hammers, they'd managed to turn away before being engaged and return to the _Saratoga_ with their report.

But as he looked at the unknown contact locked on his LIDAR, Hawkes made up within his own mind that this particular craft wasn't going to get away.

"Okay Mister Chiggy, time for you to die," muttered Hawkes hungrily as he tightened his turn just a bit more.

"_Jack-of-Spades, this Banjo, ease up on your throttle_," called Hawkes' wingman. "_You're pulling too far to my low-right for me to cover you._"

"If you can't keep up, go the hell home, Banjo," growled Hawkes as he strained against the g-forces of his hard turn.

Hawkes knew all-too-well that the brass back aboard _Saratoga_ were likely listening in on every word he was saying. Hawkes also knew that his sour attitude towards Banjo, what many of those same higher officers referred to as his apparent lack of willingness to work in a team, was one of the reasons so many of the other pilots now refused to fly on his wing.

But frankly, at this point, Cooper Hawkes would have preferred it if he was allowed to fly alone, he'd even said as much time and again to anyone who'd called him out on his attitude, including Commodore Ross.

Most people aboard the '_Toga_ simply chalked up his attitude to the fact that he was an InVitro, the stereotypical, even prejudicial view that his nature as an artificially conceived and gestated human made him undisciplined and untrustworthy.

But to Hawkes the logic was very simple; he wasn't there to make friends, he was there to kill Chigs.

Moreover, Hawkes felt he had good reasons to feel the way he did; because of the Chigs he had lost every real friend he'd ever had. Vansen, Damphouse, Wang, West, McQueen; no, they'd all been more than just friends to him, they'd been the closest thing to _family_ he had ever known.

Still, in spite of his attitude, the Commodore kept forcing others to fly at his wing.

As Hawkes finally eased out of the turning dive, he saw on LIDAR that he'd come in right where he'd wanted to be; directly in the kill slot at the target's six.

As Banjo finally sidled back up into position, Hawkes nudged his throttles up a bit as he continued to close to visual range with the target.

SOP said he had to get visual confirmation on the target before he could engage it. Nevertheless, Hawkes kept his finger poised over the trigger that would send two LIDAR-guided missiles directly up its tail if it so much as twitched.

Confirmation.

Of what exactly?

This far out in space, this deep in enemy territory, the ship had to be a Chig; no one else was left out there.

Still, it _was_ odd that the ship was travelling on its own; Chig fighters typically operated in groups of three or more.

But that one quirk didn't deter Hawkes' resolve; he was more than ready, even eager to knock the unknown bird right out of the sky.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor One-Two-Five<br>****Recon Mission**

"Frak, Sam, whoever they are, they're coming up fast on our six," called Becker.

"With all due, respect, Captain Gaines, can you get him to sit the frak down," muttered Lieutenant Samantha Larson as she motioned her head back towards the visibly agitated passenger who was now practically hovering in between the two forward seats. "If we have to pull any evasives, he'll be bouncing around inside of this cabin like a pyramid ball."

Turning around, Captain Gaines looked into the questioning face of Nathan West and motioned with her hand for him to go back to his seat.

To her surprise, instead of doing what she wanted him to do, West actually waved her off dismissively, scowling a bit as he returned his attention to the DRADIS display on the flight panel.

"Frak," sputtered Larson as she noted his continued presence. "How far back are they, Becker?"

"Coming in fast, CBDR, at two-thousand," rattled off Becker. "Estimate intercept in less than two minutes."

"Gods dammit," burst Larson as she turned and glared directly at the intrusive West. "Sit down!"

Shouting something unintelligible back at Larson, West looked over at Gaines, then began pointing adamantly at the contacts on the DRADIS.

"You want me to make him sit?" called Becker.

"You just be ready with those countermeasures," replied Larson as she watched the contacts continue to close in rapidly from behind. "Captain; him, seat, now!"

Reaching up to loosen the straps holding her to the seat, Gaines was slightly startled when West reached over and grabbed onto her shoulder.

Looking up into his eyes, Gaines watched as he again pointed adamantly at the two contacts on DRADIS, and then, this time, also at himself.

Although she thought she knew what he was trying to convey, just to be sure, Gaines herself pointed at the two contacts on the screen and then over at West.

West nodded.

For Gaines, at this point more or less used to their ad hoc method of communicating as she was, the message seemed clear; West was saying the ships closing in from behind were not alien.

"Becker, start punching in coordinates for a jump back to the fleet," snapped Larson, barely giving notice to the exchange between West and Gaines.

"Copy that!"

"No wait a minute," snapped Gaines, looking back down at the DRADIS screen. "West seems to think those might be friendly ships."

"_Seems_ to think?" sputtered Larson. "Look this is a Raptor, she's sturdy but not exactly built for ACM, all we have are some jiggers and an ECM drone, no guns, no missiles; if those contacts get hostile, all we can do is make a run for it and hope we don't get turned into metal confetti before we can jump for home."

"Point taken, Lieutenant," shot back Gaines as she looked over at Larson. "But, the Commander wanted him along on this recon run for a reason, and _this_ is the reason."

Locking eyes with one another for a moment, the two women sat there practically glaring at one another.

"Fifty-five seconds till intercept," chimed in Becker urgently. "Should I spin up the FTL or not?"

Holding her gaze with Gaines for a moment longer, Larson finally let out a sharp breath, returned her attention to the eternal field of stars beyond the canopy, shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she flexed her fingers around the flight stick. Her expression somewhat resigned, Larson let out another breath as she gently shook her head.

"Fine; hold the jump, Becker," she snapped, looking back over at Gaines a moment later, still shaking her head somewhat. "So what does he want us to do?"

"Good question," sighed Gaines as she looked back over at West. "What now?"

* * *

><p>As he stood there watching the Gaines and the pilot shout back and forth at one another, Captain Nathan West was as frustrated as ever over the communication barrier.<p>

Tone of voice, attitude, body language, it was clear that the pilot and her back-seater wanted to try and make an escape.

But as Gaines turned and looked back at him, it was clear that, for better or worse, she was apparently taking his side for the moment. But since Gaines herself was putting her trust in him, West knew he needed to validate that trust.

Picking up the questioning tone in her voice as she spoke to him, West took a deep breath as he looked back down at the contacts on the screen.

As he watched the two contacts closing in from the rear, West was honest enough with himself to know that he wasn't completely certain the craft were IFOR, more just a gut feeling.

If he'd been in the cockpit of a Hammerhead, a simple IFF interrogation would have been able to determine it for certain either way. But here and now, all he had was his instincts, and his instincts were telling him that the ships were not Chigs.

First off, there were only two of them; Chigs typically traveled in groups of three at a minimum.

Secondly, they were approaching per standard IFOR intercept protocol; Chigs typically employed a straight top-down attack approach.

But beyond that, West found himself hoping that he was not only correct about the identity of the two ships, but that if they were indeed IFOR craft they were strictly following protocol about obtaining visual confirmation before they fired.

Taking a deep breath, West looked back up at the waiting Gaines.

From her expression, it was clear she was still waiting for him to respond to her query.

"Okay," he sighed, quickly glancing around at the flight controls.

While the nomenclature on the panel was as unintelligible to him as the rest of their language, if function dictated form, then at least some of the controls seemed comparable in configuration to those on an ISSCV.

"Okay, go ahead and throttle back," muttered West as he pointed over at what he surmised were the craft's throttle controls.

With the pilot watching them both intently, and Gaines gently shaking her head, West let out a breath and pointed directly at the throttles underneath the pilot's left hand, then motioned with his hand to push forward on them.

A few quick words from Gaines and the pilot looked back over her shoulder at him with an expression that might have indicated he'd suddenly grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

Ignoring it, West nodded his head and repeated the motion.

* * *

><p>"Do it," shot Gaines as she noted Larson's clear hesitation. "Throttle us down."<p>

"Okay," sighed Larson, slowly pushing forward on the throttle controls till the Raptor's engines were at a veritable idle.

"Frak, twenty seconds," called Becker. "I hope you know what you're doing, Captain Gaines."

"So do I," muttered Gaines as she glanced back over at West.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol**

"Jack-of-spades to _Saratoga_, update, contact has apparently throttled down, anticipate intercept in fifteen seconds."

"_Roger that, Jack-of-Spades_."

As he sat scowling at his LIDAR indicator, the target clear as day, Hawkes felt his stomach twist slightly.

Something didn't feel right.

If they were Chigs, why slow down with two Hammerheads bearing down on them?

They'd have to be completely blind to not know that he and Banjo were coming up fast on their six.

So why slow down?

Reaching out to his console, Hawkes punched the button for another IFF interrogation.

And just like the last three, IFF came back with nothing.

Cursing under his breath, Hawkes looked out past his canopy. With the craft still barely more than a dot against the backdrop of space, Hawkes wasn't yet close enough to make out any of its features.

Had they stumbled across some new Chig fighter?

His stomach twisted slightly at that thought.

The last 'new' Chig fighter, not-so-affectionately nicknamed Chiggy von-Richthofen, had wiped out literally scores of allied Hammerheads before a particularly nasty one-on-one slug-match with Colonel McQueen had managed to end its terrifyingly bloody career.

"Banjo, this is Jack-of-Spades.'

"_Go ahead, Jack-of-Spades_."

"This bird is acting strange so go ahead and fall loose off my six, I'm going to go to buzz their wing, close pass, see if I can get a good look at this sucker."

"_Copy that, Jack-of-Spades_."

As Banjo and his Hammerhead slowly idled off behind him, Hawkes slammed his throttles full open and pointed the nose of his plane directly towards the growing dot in front of him.

Grinning a bit fiendishly, Hawkes was relishing the idea of rocketing past just a few meters off their wing; if they didn't know the Hammerheads were there, they'd be getting one hell-of-a wakeup call real soon.

But even as he continued to race in towards the craft, Hawkes was beginning to be able to discern more of the craft's features.

Small, somewhat stout and stubby.

Two large engines at the rear.

Equally stubby wings extending out at the sides.

He wasn't seeing any apparent weapons or hardpoints, but that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't armed either.

In any event, it didn't _look_ like a Chig craft, but it sure as hell wasn't anything he'd seen in the allied inventory either.

As the craft continued to grow larger in his canopy, Hawkes began reflexively pulling back on his throttles, his curiosity overriding his initial impulse to shake up any possible crew inside with a full-out pass.

"_This is Banjo; I'm showing your approach speed slowing, Jack-of-Spades; is there a problem_?"

"I don't know," muttered Hawkes, scowling a bit as he continued to close in on the craft. "I've never seen a bird like this before, Chig or IFOR."

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor One-Two-Five<br>****Recon Mission**

His eyes locked on the display on the forward panel, West saw that while one of the contacts was holding directly behind them, the other was still closing in rapidly.

From the body language of Gaines and the pilot, they were also quite well aware of the craft coming up fast from behind.

Looking at it from their point of view, West could certainly empathize; they were allowing the craft to race up from behind with nothing more than his vague intuition that it wasn't hostile.

Hell, were the situation reversed, West doubted he could offer up such an act of faith as they were doing.

But as he watched the contact continue to close in from behind, West felt all the more certain that he was correct.

They _had_ to be Hammerheads.

And if they weren't, well, they'd be finding out the hard way real quick.

* * *

><p>"Gods, I hope you're right about this," muttered Lieutenant Larson as she watched the contact continue to close in from behind.<p>

"Just be ready to pull some evasives if I'm wrong," replied Gaines as she glanced back over at West.

"As close as that ship is, we won't have time for evasives," muttered Larson.

Watching West, Gaines tried to read his expression, looking for any sign of doubt as he stood intently watching the closing contact on DRADIS. They were pretty much taking his 'word' that the closing contact wasn't going to attack. From the expression on his face, if he had even the faintest of doubts, he wasn't allowing them to show.

Glancing over at DRADIS, Gaines reflexively took in a deep breath as she noted just how close the contact now was.

Her eyes slowly looking back up from DRADIS, Gaines began to turn to look out to the canopy to her left.

Any moment now…

* * *

><p>As the two signals virtually merged on the center display, Captain Nathan West looked out past the canopy…<p>

…just as the closing Hammerhead shot by, barely more than a few meters past the left side of the craft.

Both Gaines and the pilot jumped slightly as it shot by, clearly startled.

To her credit, the pilot was able to maintain the craft's steady course, the reflexive flinch that had gripped her body not translating into a sudden lurching of the craft.

For her part, Gaines was a bit more flustered, looking back over at him with a less than pleased expression on her face.

As she sat there looking at him, West shrugged slightly, keeping his attention mostly on the Hammerhead that had just shot by.

That's when it hit him; there was something familiar about the Hammerhead.

Not just that it was an allied fighter, there something more.

Something about how the pilot was maneuvering the craft…

Leaning in a little further, West squinted a bit, trying to better make out the plane's markings.

Thankfully, the Hammerhead pilot was deftly bringing the plane back around, apparently just as curious about the stubby craft West was riding in.

And it was as the plane made that turn, tilting its wings ever so slightly, allowing him to get a good look at the fighter's dimly lit dorsal markings that West's heart jumped a bit.

"Hawkes!" he burst excitedly.

* * *

><p>As she sat there, looking back and forth from the craft slowly turning about outside the canopy to the smile spreading across West's face, Gaines wasn't entirely sure what was going on. It was clear from his expression that West recognized the craft, but hopefully that also meant they weren't in any immediate danger of being shot to pieces.<p>

Still, Gaines was unsettled by the craft's unorthodox near-pass.

Looking out at the craft, it seemed quite clear to Gaines that this was indeed the same kind of ship that had been spotted near the fleet.

And like those other two planes, this one that was truly armed to bear.

Jutting out from under the chin was a massive cannon, apparently mounted on a rotating swivel to more effectively engage targets no directly in front of it. Moreover, it carried an impressive away of missile ordnance tucked in beneath the craft's forward sloped wings on hardpoints.

If both the craft, that is the one in front of them as well as the one still trailing behind them were equally armed, and frankly Gaines had no reason to doubt that they were, it was a very good thing that at least for now they weren't acting in a hostile fashion; with that much firepower, she doubted they'd have had more than an instant to second-guess they're decision to trust West before being blown to pieces.

"Okay, they buzzed us, now what?" sighed Larson as she looked back at West.

"He definitely seems to recognize them," muttered Becker from the back seat. "Either that or he needs to take one hell-of-a piss."

Ignoring Becker's comment, Gaines looked out at the craft as it continued to slowly turn back towards the Raptor, then, looking back at West, she snapped her fingers, a somewhat futile gesture considering she had gloves on, to get his attention.

As he looked at her, Gaines pointed out at the craft, then at him.

West quickly, empathically nodded his head, pointing first out at the craft then at himself.

Letting out a clipped breath, Gaines looked back out at the craft completed its turn and began slowly, very slowly, inching its way back towards the Raptor.

"So what does he want us to do now?" asked Larson as she watched the craft close back in.

Looking back at West, Gaines simply waited.

Noting Gaines' attention, West seemed to hesitate for a moment, seemingly unsure what to do next himself.

Then, after a few moments, West spread his arms out to his sides and began rocking back and forth.

Gaines simply stared at him.

Letting out a slightly exasperated gasp, West again spread his arms out and rocked back and forth.

"I have no idea what you want us to do," muttered Gaines, shaking her head slightly.

"I think I do," said Becker as he too sat watching West. "Hey!"

Responding to Becker's call, West looked back over at Becker.

Becker first pointed around at the Raptor, then sticking his arms out, rocked back and forth slightly in his seat.

As West emphatically began nodding his head, Becker chuckled slightly.

"What is it, Becker?" called Larson impatiently, her eyes not leaving the craft outside.

"He wants us to waggle the wings," said Becker.

"Waggle?" muttered Larson, this time turning around with a decidedly quizzical look on her face.

"Waggle, what's a waggle?" asked Gaines flatly.

"Haven't you ever seen any old war films," muttered Larson, grinning slightly. "He wants us to rock the Raptor back and forth; essentially, he wants us to say 'hello' to that craft out there."

Glancing back over at West, Gaines took a breath, then simply began to nod her head.

"Okay," she sighed. "Let's waggle."

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol**

"What the hell?" muttered Hawkes, his face contorted in a curious scowl as he watched the strange craft rock back and forth.

"_Jack-of-Spades, you good-to-go_?" called Banjo.

As he watched the mysterious vehicle rock once again, Hawkes couldn't help but chuckle slightly.

"_Banjo to Jack-of-Spades; I say again, are you good-to-go_?"

"Yeah, just hold it for a minute," muttered Hawkes.

Since completing his turn, Hawkes had been progressively inching his Hammerhead closer to the craft so he'd be practically nose-to-nose with them.

So it was that as the small craft began waggling its wings for the third time that Hawkes noted that he was getting close enough to be able to discern occupants behind the large bulbous canopy.

Three that he could see clearly…

Taking a deep breath, Hawkes slowly lowered his finger away from the trigger.

He still wasn't sure of what to make of the stubby little craft, but for the moment at least, waggling wings was better than exchanging ordnance.

"Okay, you want to make friends, I'll make friends."

With his Hammerhead continuing to inch closer, Hawkes waggled his own wings.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor One-Two-Five<br>****Recon Mission**

"Not to sound like a broken recording or anything, but now what?" muttered Larson as she watched the other craft waggle its own wings. "We're going to be nose-to-nose with that ship here pretty quick."

Looking back over at West, Gaines watched as he began excitedly pointing up at his helmet with one hand while his other hand began fiddling with the locking latch around his collar.

Nodding, Gaines reached over and helped West unfasten the helmet.

As they pulled the helmet clear, West motioned for Gaines to get up from the seat as well.

"Why?" muttered Gaines.

Picking up on her questioning tone, West pointedly out at the craft, then at himself, quite emphatically at himself, then over at the patch on Larson's flight uniform.

When neither Gaines nor Larson gave much of a reaction, West let out an exasperated breath.

Reaching forward, West pointed at the craft, then at the pilot wings on Larson's uniform, then at himself, and again at the pilot wings.

"Think he recognizes this particular craft?" muttered Larson as she watched West.

"Maybe," replied Gaines, still not yet moving from the seat. "Unless I miss my guess, he's trying to say he's also a pilot."

"Would explain why he knew about a waggle," offered Becker evenly.

Shrugging slightly, Gaines reached up and began unfastening the straps to the seat.

"What the hell, it's worth a shot," she sighed as she slipped her arms out from the shoulder straps. "Wouldn't be any crazier than anything else that's happened the last couple of days."

As she slipped past West, the man quickly dropped down into the seat and looked out at the approaching craft intently.

As she took up the spot West had been occupying between the pilot seats, Gaines looked out and saw that the craft had finally settled in nearly nose-to-nose with the Raptor, barely a couple of meters separating the two ships.

"Well," sighed Gaines as she glanced over at West. "You wanted to be up in the front seat, you might as well wave at your friend."

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol**

With his skin growing cold and prickly beneath the fabric of his flight suit, Hawkes sat shaking his head.

"It _can't_ be," he muttered, his tone little more than naked disbelief.

Reaching up with his gloved hands, Hawkes actually rubbed his eyes, certain that somehow they were deceiving him.

But after a moment of sitting there, more or less daring himself to look once more, Hawkes again looked across at the small craft.

If what he _was_ seeing was just a ghost, it was a persistent one.

But one he also couldn't ignore.

"West?" he muttered, his head swimming a bit from his racing heartbeat.

As he sat there looking across the breathless void at what was clearly his long since thought lost squadron mate and friend, Hawkes couldn't help but begin to grin a bit.

Thoroughly dumbfounded, Hawkes watched as West, of all things, began waving to him from the cockpit of the strange craft.

His uncomfortable grin now becoming ear-to-ear, Hawkes jumped forward, instantly slamming against the straps holding him firmly in the Hammerhead cockpit.

"West!" he shouted, waving wildly. "Hey, man!"

If he hadn't been strapped to the Hammerhead, Hawkes might have literally exploded through the canopy at the sight of his friend.

Then, just as quickly, Hawkes began to feel a bit stupid.

It _couldn't_ be West.

West was _dead_.

But as Hawkes continued to struggle with the ambiguity of the situation, desperate to reconcile what he was seeing with what he had come to accept as fact, that his friend was gone, he couldn't help but keep looking out at West.

Reaching up, Hawkes began tapping the side of his helmet then motioned back and forth between himself and West.

Reaching up, West tapped the side of his head then shook his head no.

Damn, no radio.

Then, reaching out to the panel in front of him, Hawkes began toggling the forward flood light on and off.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor One-Two-Five<br>****Recon Mission**

"Pen and paper," snapped Nathan West as he watched the forward floodlights on Hawkes' Hammerhead flash, holding up his hands and pantomiming a writing motion.

Although both Gaines and the redheaded pilot hadn't understood what he'd said, the man at the rear console must have been able to divine what West needed for he almost immediately appeared with a pen and some loose sheets of paper.

Looking back out at the flashing Hammerhead lights, West began scribbling down the dots and dashes that corresponded to each series of signals. As the flashes finally ceased, West looked down and quickly deciphered the message Hawkes had relayed.

"What did Wang like most about San Francisco?" he muttered as he read the brief Morse message.

Grinning a bit, West looked back just in time to see the same man who'd handed him the pen and paper also hand him a flashlight.

Language might be a problem, but at least they didn't lack common sense.

Flashlight in hand, West looked back out at Hawkes' Hammerhead and sent his response.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol**

His mind still in no way convinced that he was really seeing Nathan West in the cockpit opposite of him, Hawkes had slowly brought his finger back up over the trigger for the forward gun as he waited for a response to his message. But as he sat watching West signal a reply to his challenge, Hawkes once again began slowly dropping his finger back away from the weapon trigger.

While it was possible that the entity in the opposing craft was some sort of duplicate; the Chigs had used such false copies in the past; Hawkes had intentionally sent over a challenge message that was so obscure that almost no one but the real Nathan West would have been able to answer correctly.

But as the flashes from the other cockpit continued, Hawkes felt his doubts melt away.

"The Forth-Niners haven't beaten the Chicago Bears in almost a decade," muttered Hawkes as he watched the flashes, a grin rapidly spreading across his lips.

It _had_ to be West.

"_Jack-of-Spades, this is Banjo; what's your status_?" called his wingman.

With no small amount of euphoria still racing through him over the apparent resurrection of his squadron-mate, it took Hawkes a moment to compose himself.

"_Jack-of-Spades, do you copy_?"

"Yeah, yeah, I copy Banjo, be advised I have contact with possible friendlies here," replied Hawkes as he continued to look out at West, uncertain exactly what to do next.

"_This is Boss Ross_," cut in another voice over the squadron-tac. "_Jack-of-Spades, clarify your last, there are no other friendly units operating in this sector._"

It was the commanding voice of Commodore Ross.

"I don't know what else to say, sir," began Hawkes, pausing as he continued to watch West, almost fearful that if he looked away his friend would vanish. "I don't know who this ship belongs to, but I'm looking right at him."

"_Just who exactly are you looking at_?" asked Commodore Ross.

Shaking his head slightly, not even close to understanding the circumstances himself, Hawkes nevertheless toggled the transmit button.

"I'm looking at West, sir," replied Hawkes. "He's alive."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**United States Naval Space Carrier – SCVN-2812  
><strong>**US 15****th**** Fleet – United Nations International Forces (UN IFOR)**

In the over thirty years that Commodore Glen van Ross had served in the United States Navy, he had seen and heard many strange or unbelievable tales; accounts both of heroism and sacrifice which strained credulity, and of horrors beyond adequate or palpable description.

Crazier still, a good number had been true.

But as he stood leaning in over the communications officer's shoulder, Commodore Ross was beginning to wonder if his stubborn insistence on keeping Hawkes on flight status had finally pushed the young Marine over the edge.

"_Did you copy my last, Boss Ross_?"

"Copy receipt of transmission, Jack-of-Spades," replied Ross, unsure of exactly what else to say.

"_Request instructions; should we attempt to escort craft back to the _Saratoga?" asked Hawkes flatly.

Before Ross could answer, however, an alarm sounded over near the LIDAR station.

"Commodore," burst the LIDAR officer, Lieutenant Rosary. "Long-range LIDAR is picking up three bogies near Jack-of-Spades' position. From their LIDAR signatures, probable Chig fighters on an intercept course with the fleet."

Pausing for a moment, Ross weighed the situation in his mind.

"Jack-of-Spades, this is Boss Ross; can you assess whether the unknown craft poses a threat at this time?"

"_A threat_?" sputtered Hawkes. "_I just told you, sir, West is on the craft_."

"That's not what I asked, Lieutenant, now give me an assessment," barked Ross.

"_Sir, threat assessment is negligible_," replied Hawkes flatly. "_Human occupants, no visible weapons on the craft_."

"Sir, those three bogies are fifteen minutes from our security barrier and closing," prodded Lieutenant Rosary.

Taking a deep, frustrated breath, Ross glared over at the LIDAR screen.

"Muster the Alert-Five for intercept," snapped Ross.

"Aye, sir."

Returning his attention to the question of the unknown craft, Ross wondered just what to do.

If he ordered Hawkes and his wingman to engage, would Hawkes shoot it down?

For his part, Ross doubted it.

From the tone of the young Marine's voice, it was clear he truly believed Nathan West was aboard the craft.

"This is Boss Ross," began the Commodore, his attention returning to the contacts on the LIDAR. "Break off and move for priority intercept of three bogies at one-seven-five mark zero-one-five from fleet. Alert-Five will be on station to assist by the time you intercept."

"_What about West_?"

Ross took a deep breath.

Three confirmed threats versus a reported negligible threat.

"Let them go," muttered Ross simply.

There was a long pause.

Would Hawkes disobey his order?

Urban legends about InVitro's having no luck aside, Ross had already ignored, brushed aside or otherwise covered for Hawkes, hell, the _entire_ Fifty-Eighth Squadron more times than he cared to count.

But unless he could get Hawkes to fall back into line, and soon, nothing would be able to keep the stubborn young man from experiencing a long stay in the brig, if not a psyche ward.

"Jack-of-Spades, did you copy; break off contact with no prejudice and proceed with dispatch to intercept three Chig fighters," muttered Ross, his already renowned short-patience growing shorter by the moment.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>****Combat Air Patrol**

Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes sat in the cockpit of his Hammerhead, for lack of a better way of describing it, paralyzed by the situation.

Thankfully, Boss Ross was apparently willing to accept his assessment that the strange craft posed no danger, sparing him the consequences of disobeying an order to fire on the unknown ship carrying his long-thought-lost friend.

Still, the Commodore was ordering him away nonetheless.

Worse still, it was an order he knew bone-deep he _had_ to follow.

If he let Banjo and the other Alert-Five Hammerheads engage without him, if he abrogated his duty to them, it only heightened the likelihood that someone would die.

And at this point in the war, pilots, especially good pilots, were already in critically short supply in the fleet.

Reaching back out to his control panel, Hawkes began sending another message via his floodlights.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor One-Two-Five<br>****Recon Mission**

His eyes watching as Hawkes relayed his next message, Nathan West feverishly scribbled down the dots and dashes.

"Boss Ross not convinced; three Chigs to kill nearby," muttered West as he read the message he'd scribbled down.

Looking back out, West held the flashlight up and sent a simple reply.

"Roger that."

Hawkes' reply was somewhat more poetic.

"Alpha-Michael-Foxtrot."

Adios Mother-Fucker…

With that, the Hammerhead fighter heeled hard about and rocketed off into the darkness at full burn.

Looking over at Gaines and the redheaded pilot, it was clear from their expression they were surprised, and perhaps a touch unnerved by the Hammerhead's sudden departure.

But even before he could begin to try and formulate a way to convey to them why Hawkes had rushed off, their LIDAR display, or whatever it really was, began buzzing for their attention as three new contacts slipped into range.

The man at the back console barked out a few words, and both Gaines and the pilot looked over at West.

For his part, West pointed first at the two Hammerheads racing away on the display then at the three new contacts. He then held up his hand, curling his fingers as such to simulate a pistol and made a few mock gunshot noises.

While the pilot let out a sharp breath, Gaines quickly motioned for West to put his helmet back on. Once he'd done so, with help from Gaines to make sure it was properly locked in place, she began motioning for him to get up out of the co-pilot's seat.

As he quickly moved back towards his original seat in the rear compartment, he could hear the crew's chatter as they rapidly brought the small craft around and throttled up the engines.

From their actions it was clear that they understood that the Hammerheads were about to engage the Chigs. It was also clear they didn't want to be anywhere nearby when they did.

After a few more moments, West heard the engines building up power until he saw the same bright flash of lights outside he'd seen before.

Assuming they had once again used their faster-than-light drive, West was not so nearly as surprised as before when he saw the silhouette of their massive carrier coming around into view once more through the canopy.

Grinning slightly, West wondered how Hawkes and the others were reacting to the sudden disappearance of the small craft from their LIDAR displays.

True faster-than-light capability.

He was still in awe of the idea.

As he watched the small ship line up for approach on one of the massive flight decks, Nathan West couldn't help but feel that same nagging question rise up within him once more.

Just who the hell were these people?

The question no longer held the same ominous feel as it had before, but it did still hold the same edge of urgency.

It was then that he curiously remembered the paraphrasing of the Occam's razor principle.

'_All other things being equal, the simplest solution is the best_.'

They _were_ human.

But they _weren't_ from Earth.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlestar <strong>_**Pacifica  
><strong>_**Port Flight Pod**

As he stepped out onto the main deck of what had once served as the Port flight pod hangar, Adrian Kelso had to admit to himself that he was more than a touch annoyed.

Over the last several days, ever since his son had made the decision to begin ramping up the fleet for possible combat operations, he and the other ship commanders carrying the bulk of the civilian survivors had been literally bombarded with questions and concerns over the increased activity.

While not yet approaching a state of panic, there was definitely a collective unease that could very quickly, and explosively, turn into outright distrust, or worse, rebellion.

He couldn't necessarily argue with his son's rationale for holding back what little they actually knew regarding the possible presence of an Earth fleet…

…and to his mind's eye, in spite of his son's protests to avoid supposition, the fact that they had encountered other human beings had to mean it was an Earth fleet…

…in the area. Perhaps even more prudently though, they were also holding back information regarding the presence of a possible hostile _alien_ force.

Nevertheless, just as Paul Bess had more or less warned, rumors were rampant amongst the survivors. Predictably, most centered around the notion that the Cylons had somehow managed to locate their fleet.

Oddly, even ironically, the rumor that lay closest to the truth, that the fleet had stumbled across aliens, was the most derided of the gossip being passed around.

But the underlying tension was present and keenly felt nonetheless.

So it was that when he heard his son was coming over to the _Pacifica_, Adrian Kelso had presumed Sean was coming over to give him some information, an update on whatever the recon Raptors may have found.

After an hour of waiting in CIC, Adrian received word that his son had come aboard but had instead made an unexpected detour down to the Port pod, hence his own presence there now.

As he made his way through the area, this particular section currently acting as massed berthing for several hundred survivors, Adrian did his best to hide his percolating frustration.

"Commander," chimed a voice that immediately caught Adrian's attention.

Looking down, he saw the twin cherubic faces of Joshua and Alexander Petorran, the grandsons of _Pacifica_'s Chief Engineer, Mike Franklin, staring up at him from the front of small cluster of children.

In spite of his underlying mood, Adrian Kelso immediately put on his most sincere grin as he leaned down a bit.

"Joshua, Alexander, how are you two doing today?" he asked as he did his best to ignore the slight twinge he suddenly felt in the small of his aged back.

"We're fine, sir," replied Joshua, at least he thought it was Joshua.

Hard to tell with twins…

"Teacher let us take a break when we saw you come in," continued Alexander as he pointed back at the small cluster of other children hovering just behind the twins.

"I see," sighed Kelso as he glanced back up at the silently giggling school teacher standing just a few feet away amid another small cluster of adults. "Are you children learning a lot of fun things today?"

"Nah, just a lot of math," replied Joshua, his face contorting in a childish grimace.

"Ah, but math is _very_ important," countered Kelso evenly. "And your grandpa would definitely agree with me. If it weren't for math, this whole ship wouldn't be able to work…"

"And we would have _died_ with everyone else back of Sagittaron," chimed in a visibly sour young girl near the back of the group.

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso knelt down, relieving a bit of the pressure on his back.

"Gather around me for a second, kids," he said, motioning for them to close in a bit.

Taking a deep breath, he looked out into their eyes.

Ever since their escape from the Cylon attack on the Colonies, he'd seen sorrow and despair in many a person's eyes, the haunting look of people who'd lost everyone and everything that had given their lives a sense of meaning and purpose.

But to Adrian Kelso it seemed far more tragic to see that same look in the eyes of those who were supposed to embody nothing but innocence.

"Now I need you children to listen to me," he began evenly. "I know we've all lost a lot of things that are important, a lot of people we miss. But, we have to be strong, and I need you to be strong too."

"But I heard that the Cylons have found us again," chimed in a young boy with disheveled brunette hair.

"And where did you hear that?"

"Some of the parents were talking about it," replied the boy as he absently pointed over at the cluster of adults around the teacher.

Glancing up at the group, he could see they were watching, listening.

Damn; had the adults actually mustered the audacity to set these kids up to pump him for information?

Scowling slightly at the cluster of adults, Adrian Kelso took another deep breath.

"Well, _I_ haven't been told that kids," he replied evenly as he looked back at the children. "So if I were you, I'd just make sure to pay attention to the lessons. Okay, can you do that for me?"

As the children nodded in reply, Adrian Kelso stood back up and motioned them back over to the waiting teacher and set off again through the ad hoc living space.

As he went, Kelso made it a point to cast one more glare over at the cluster of adults who were still likewise watching him intently.

Once he'd finally made his way a short distance off from the cluster, Adrian Kelso spotted what he almost instantly realized was his son at the far end of the space.

Quickening his pace somewhat, Adrian Kelso made his way through the improvised refugee camp. Before the attack had forced the _Pacifica_ into her new career as a refugee ship, this particular space had housed the Viper and other aerospace craft displays during the ship's tenure as a museum.

As such, it was also the space that housed the Wall, the large polished marble memorial that displayed the names of the crewmen lost during the Battle of Libran. And it was there at the base of the wall that he found his son.

Practical concerns over housing the civilians had dictated that the displays had largely been dismantled, some for the few spare parts that they offered, others for smelting into other usable materiel.

But the Wall remained.

No, not just remained.

In a very real sense, the Wall had expanded.

Till today, Adrian Kelso had been too preoccupied with the operation of _Pacifica_ herself to see how the Wall had evolved these last several months. The somber yet imposing monument was now festooned with a growing collection of pictures, notes, quotes of scriptures, mementos left by the survivors to memorialize those loved and lost during the destruction of the Colonies.

At the base of the Wall, small makeshift altars had been set up as well, the dried puddles of wax from candles burned in remembrance, a few whispering mourners with bowed heads on bent knees offering up sob-filled prayers for the fallen.

And standing there, like a lone sentinel, was his son Sean, eyes cast up at the gold lettering etched into the marble surface.

Shortening his step as he came up behind Sean, Adrian took another deep breath.

"Heard you were here," he muttered as he stepped up beside Sean. "Thought you were going to meet me up in CIC."

"Just a small detour," replied Sean evenly, his eyes never leaving the Wall. "Guess I just lost track of time."

For a few moments, Adrian stood there looking at his son for a moment. He could tell by Sean's expression that there was something on his son's mind, something that was troubling him deeply.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked simply.

"About what?"

"For years I brought you along to the reunions," began Adrian, exhaling slowly as he himself looked up at the too-many gold-lettered names. "And this is the _first_ time I have ever seen you actually looking at that wall."

"Just seemed like the right time to stop and remember," muttered Sean. "Everything we've lost, everything we could still lose."

Taking a deep breath, Sean continued to stare up at the Wall, his gaze not moving.

For his part, Adrian was simply all the more certain that his son had something pressing on his mind.

"What's going on?" he asked simply, reaching over with his hand and resting it on his son's shoulder.

Taking another deep breath, Sean finally looked over at his father, the faintest hint of tears at the corners of his eyes.

As they stood there, looking at each other, father and son, Adrian saw hesitation in Sean's eyes.

Finally, with a clipped breath, Sean looked back up at the Wall.

"For the record, this is not the first time I've ever looked at the Wall," began Sean evenly. "In fact, the first time was during the very first reunion you brought me to, do you remember when that was?"

"I do," sighed Adrian looking back at the Wall himself, but his hand never leaving his son's shoulder. "Gods, you were only eight."

Chuckling slightly at the memory, Adrian gently shook his head, the barest hint of a grin refusing the depart corners of his lips.

"Damned near drove your mother crazy too, her having to chase you around the reception hall, never mind what you said to Missus Glavino about her dress."

This time, Sean chuckled a bit.

"I'm sorry, but she _did_ look like an eggplant in that outfit," replied Sean innocently, chuckling a bit.

"She did at that," nodded Adrian evenly as he also chuckled at the memory, the near-horrified look on the woman's face etched into his memory. "Still wasn't polite to mention it though."

Light as the chit-chat was, through, as their mutual laughter quickly subsided, Adrian could still see that his son's eyes held a sorrowful gaze.

"I was wondering, Dad," sighed Sean, canting his head slightly as he continued to look at the Wall. "Did you ever notice that name?"

"What name?" muttered Adrian as his eyes casually passed over the seemingly endless names.

"_That_ one," replied Sean as he pointed up at the gold lettering.

Following his son's gesture, Adrian's gaze panned across the names.

And for the first time, he actually _saw_ what his son was referring to.

One name amongst too damned many…

"Sean Kelso," he muttered, a chill running up his spine at seeing the haunting name etched in gold. "Gods _dammit_, I never saw that before…"

For a few moments, Adrian Kelso simply stood there, stammering, stunned, his eyes transfixed by the gold lettering that spelled out his son's name.

"I honestly _never_ saw that before," he finally sighed, shaking his head slightly.

"I did," muttered Sean weakly. "I saw it that very first time I came to the reunion, and never wanted to see it again."

Looking back over at his son, Adrian was utterly speechless.

"Who was he?" muttered Adrian, his tone a mix of astonishment and anger. "How come his name was never read during the ceremonies?"

"His name hadn't yet been added to the ship's battle roster, only her manifest at the Ministry of Defense," replied Sean evenly, his gaze still locked on the haunting letters. "He'd only been aboard the _Pacifica_ a week when he was killed."

"How do you know?"

"A couple of years ago, my curiosity got the better of me and I filed a request with the MOD personnel bureau to have a look at his service record," replied Sean evenly. "_That_ Sean Kelso was born in the township of Tersa on Aerilon, the eldest of four children. Enlisted at seventeen, he'd just completed his A-school four days prior to being assigned to _Pacifica_."

"My gods, he was just a kid," muttered Adrian, his tone growing somber as he looked back up at the golden letters overhead. "So many of them were just kids..."

"Which is one of the reasons I always had such trouble coming here," continued Sean, letting out a long, thoughtful breath. "For you and the other veterans, this Wall is about remembering the ones who died. For me, it's been as much about those who _could_ die, even when the decision to fight, as you said, is the right choice, the _only_ choice, to make."

Looking back over at his son, as much to avoid the haunting image of his son's name etched in marble as anything, Adrian tried to read Sean's expression.

Distant, pensive…

"I asked the other ship commanders to meet me over here," began Sean evenly, glancing casually at the watch on his wrist. "They should be assembling in the COC by now."

Taking one last glance up at the Wall, Sean gently shook his head and turned.

Still trying to decipher his son's mood, Adrian reached out and grabbed hold of Sean's shoulder.

"Something's changed, hasn't it?" muttered Adrian, locking eyes with his son for a moment. "You wouldn't be here, wouldn't be so introspective unless something had happened, I know you, son."

For a moment, Sean didn't answer, instead looking around apprehensively at the other people who were meandering about the area.

"Dad…"

"No, tell me, what the hell is going on with you, Sean?"

Looking back into his father's eyes, Sean saw that there was no way his father was going to simply let the subject go.

"Dad," began Sean, his voice barely a whisper as he again glancing around, ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "We found them."

* * *

><p><strong>USS Saratoga<br>****United States Naval Space Carrier – SCVN-2812  
><strong>**Quarters of Commodore Glen van Ross**

"I'm afraid I need a better explanation than _that_, Lieutenant Hawkes," said Commodore Ross evenly.

Sitting ramrod straight at his desk, Ross leveled his best no-nonsense glare at the young pilot.

Hawkes, still dressed in his flight suit, hair matted from dried sweat, was hardly fazed.

"I don't know what else you want me to say, sir," replied Hawkes evenly, his eyes never leaving the Commodore's stern face. "But it _was_ West."

For a few moments, Ross sat there, looking across the desk, searching for something, _anything_, in Hawkes' features to indicate doubt or hesitation.

Could he be lying about what he'd seen?

The one benefit of InVitro's being 'born' at eighteen years old was that they typically had far too little life experience to be really good liars. More often than not, the small telltale signs of a lie, fidgety motions, eye movement, body language, were only magnified by their relative immaturity.

Hawkes was displaying none of these.

For Ross, that left only two other viable possibilities.

Either Hawkes had finally cracked; the weight of the loss of so many friends, truly, the only friends he had ever known combined with the stresses of almost constant combat had finally driven Hawkes into delusion.

Or, he was telling the truth.

At least, the truth as he saw it.

Ross had thought that by asking Hawkes about what he'd seen, up front and in person, he would better be able to divine perhaps what it was the young officer had actually seen.

Instead, Ross was only left with a greater sense of uncertainty.

Taking a deep breath, Ross glanced away from Hawkes, trying to figure out just what to say to the man.

"Take a seat, Lieutenant," sighed Ross, gently shaking his head as he glanced away.

As it was the first time that Commodore Ross had ever been so informal with Hawkes, he simply stood there for a moment, uncertain.

Finally, as Ross looked back and noted Hawkes' hesitation, the Commodore pointed directly at the chair opposite of him.

As Hawkes slowly settled into the seat, Ross took another deep breath.

"Hawkes…," began Ross, pausing for a moment. "Hawkes, I feel I need to explain something to you, and I need you to listen to me _very_ carefully."

"Aye, sir."

"There are those who disagree with my decision not to pursue a Court Martial against you and Captain West for your conduct on Anvil," began Ross, his tone very firm, deliberate. "In no uncertain terms, they are prepared to lay full blame for the drastic turn for the worse this war has taken squarely at the feet of the Fifty-Eighth."

"And what about you, sir?" asked Hawkes pointedly. "Do you think we were wrong, letting that creature go when we didn't know it was a Chig?"

"Hawkes, we wouldn't even be having this conversation if I didn't think you and the rest of the Fifty-Eighth had acted in good-faith," replied Ross evenly. "As General Patton once said, no good decision was ever made in a swivel chair. I for one am not in the habit of second guessing my men on the ground without evidence of gross negligence."

As he listened, Hawkes gently nodded his head, though for his part Ross sincerely doubted the young officer actually knew who General George S. Patton was.

"The point being, Hawkes, you already have a proverbial bullseye on your back," continued Ross. "There are plenty of eyes that are watching you, the kind of eyes that are just waiting for an opportunity to paint you as a traitor."

"I'm _not_ a traitor, sir," countered Hawkes flatly.

"And unfortunately, under the current circumstances, the burden of proof is squarely on your shoulders to prove that," said Ross as he slowly leaned back in his seat. "This is not about right or wrong, son. Not here, and not for your actions on Anvil. This is about appearances and about finding someone that can be held accountable."

As he sat looking across at Hawkes, Ross desperately searched for some sign that the young man was truly absorbing what it was he was trying to convey. Unfortunately that same inexperience InVitro's had with deception also often walked hand-in-hand with a naiveté regarding the cutthroat nuances of politics.

As the last surviving member of the Fifth-Eighth still aboard _Saratoga_, McQueen having long ago been med-evac'd back to Earth, it was Hawkes' burden to carry the collective resent and blame of practically the entire United Nations military establishment for the devastating turn in the fortunes of war that now had Earth once again on a very costly defensive if not the verge of defeat.

"Hawkes, I'm going to be blunt with you," began Ross, wringing his hands slightly. "The last thing you need right now is to be perceived as either mentally deficient or in collusion with the enemy. For you to go on the record, your voice recorded, saying you saw Captain West…"

"I _did_ see him, sir," interjected Hawkes.

As he sat there, eyes locked with Hawkes, Ross let out a long sigh as he tried to think of what else he could say to try and get his point across to the Marine.

But Hawkes simply sat there, his very demeanor intractable.

Hawkes saw someone or something he was convinced was Captain Nathan West, and nothing Commodore Glen van Ross was going to say would convince him otherwise.

"You're dismissed, Lieutenant," sighed Ross, his tone the epitome of resigned.

As Hawkes stood up, he came to attention, executed a smart about face, and departed Ross' quarters.

Staring at the now-closed hatch, Ross let go of another long sigh.

In truth, Commodore Glen van Ross should have been occupying himself with far more pressing concerns than the survival of one lone Marine's career. And yet, out of deference for his friendship with T.C McQueen, Ross had still tried.

Pressing concerns…

Reaching down into the bottom drawer of his desk, Ross pulled out his half-empty bottle of rum he had stashed away there and poured himself a neat shot, quickly downing it as he slowly swiveled around to stare out his cabin porthole at the expanse of stars beyond.

Pressing concerns indeed.

If things didn't change soon, it wouldn't matter what any of those gunning for Hawkes thought.

Ever since the cancellation of Operation Roundhammer, the Chigs had brutally and relentlessly managed to roll back almost all of the hard-won gains made by Earth forces since the Battle of the Belt over two years earlier.

In complete defiance of all intelligence reports that the Chigs were on the verge of collapse militarily, reports that had with great confidence stated the Chig war machine was overstretched and understrength, the enemy had reemerged from their home system with a vengeance.

In a matter of weeks, four entire IFOR fleets had been lost, costing hundreds of thousands of lives. Demios, Ixion, Tartarus, Cher; a whole laundry list of planets, seized from the enemy at staggering cost, intended as staging grounds for the invasion of the Chig homeworld, had now been all but retaken by the enemy.

As it was, the entirety of what remained of the United Nations forces had been recalled to Earth, pulled back in anticipation of what was certain to be the enemy's inevitable assault on humanity's home. _Saratoga_ and the battered remains of the Fifteenth Fleet were now limping home as well.

Tasked with fighting a delaying action while the bulk of remaining Earth forces retreated back to the Sol system, Commodore Ross had worked with all his cunning and determination to hold back the onslaught, reducing a complete evisceration of Earth forces to a 'mere' gross hemorrhaging.

That Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes had survived so many melees these last couple months was no small testament to his prowess as a pilot. Indeed, no one viewing his combat record alone had any right to question Hawkes' loyalty, especially when that loyalty was to an Earth which still exercised so much prejudice against other InVitros.

Taking another stiff shot of rum, Ross leaned back in his seat and began massaging his sore neck.

With the rest of the Earth forces now withdrawn from the shattered front, pulled back to the relative safety of the Sol system, Ross had exercised no small amount of broadcast disinformation and long-range diversionary strikes to hide the fact that he had pulled his remaining forces about as far from the now-abandoned frontlines as possible.

His goal; to reach the Banū Mūsā Wormhole. Banū Mūsā was advantageous in that it was one of the least known and therefore least used transit points of all the charted wormholes. The reason; transit through Banū Mūsā would actually place Ross' fleet further away from Earth, at least at first. By every definition the starting point of the least direct route home, Banū Mūsā was the first leg of a three wormhole route, a wide circuit course that would eventually take them within distance of the Groombridge Wormhole, which itself led straight back to the Sol system.

It was the long way around the barn, but it seemed to offer the best odds for survival.

At least, it would if they were able to avoid having their fleet engaged by the enemy before they reached it. While they had initially been confident that they'd managed to elude the Chig fleet, over the last couple of days, contacts with both confirmed enemy fighters as well as craft of 'unknown origin' left him feeling less like he was making good their escape, and more like he was being corralled.

In any event, either way, Commodore Glen van Ross couldn't escape one very hard fact of his fleet's situation; if Banū Mūsā wasn't able to provide the battered Fifteenth Fleet with a route of retreat, then Hawkes wouldn't have to worry about anyone in the higher echelons gunning for him, because he and everyone else in the fleet would already be dead.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlestar <strong>_**Pacifica  
><strong>_**Command Operations Center**

"As of zero-six hundred hours this morning, this is what we know," began Commander Sean Kelso evenly as he looked out at the other ship commanders now assembled around the large operations table. "The four recon Raptors dispatched from _Galactica_ early this morning have been maintaining a solid track on two separate and distinct groups of ships just beyond our fleet's primary DRADIS range."

With that, the collective attention of the people around the table firmly focused on him, Commander Kelso stepped up to a large projection screen showing a hastily marked plot chart.

"The first group, designated Fleet-Alpha, is moving at roughly point-two-zero-C and is composed of eleven ships. The second, Fleet-Bravo, is holding position here and is composed of approximately twenty-one vessels."

Taking a moment to look over the chart himself, Commander Kelso let out a long breath as he turned back to the attentive faces around the large table.

"Now Fleet-Alpha appears to be a mixed composition group, unknown configurations, but at least four or five separate classes of capital level vessels based on their DRADIS signatures."

Moving back down to the large table, Commander Kelso picked up the clipboard that had been delivered to him by an aide prior to the meeting. As he double-checked the information, he absently scratched at the slight stubble forming on his cheek.

"By contrast," began Commander Kelso, taking a deep breath as he again looked back up at the attentive faces around him. "Fleet-Bravo is much more homogenous in make-up, DRADIS indicating all major vessels are of the same approximate dimensions and configuration."

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso absently picked back up the clipboard and held it.

"Now, presuming both fleets possess a similar engagement range to our own combat assets, the two fleets will be staring into each other's bore sights in a matter of hours unless one turns away."

Setting the clipboard back down with a slight clatter, Commander Kelso leaned in over the table.

"We now know the _where_, and we can reasonably project the _when_," began Commander Kelso, smiling somewhat wryly as he continued to look from face to face. "The question before us is no longer academic, people; _what_ do we do?"

"First question I have, Commander," began Runel as he stood perusing the copy of data that had been handed to him. "Do we know exactly who is who here?"

"While we're still working on cracking the encryption protocols they're using, we have been able to detect a flurry of intership wireless activity in Fleet-Alpha," replied Commander Kelso as he glanced back over his shoulder at the projected chart. "In addition, one of our Raptors was able to make a fairly close pass with two craft similar to the fighters that interrupted our training mission the other day. Based on that we can reasonably conclude that Fleet-Alpha is the Earth fleet we were looking for."

Looking back over at Runel, Commander Kelso took a deep breath.

"Have our Raptors been able to get a closer look at Fleet-Bravo, sir?" asked Major Jasper.

"No, in fact we nearly lost the two Raptors that made an attempt," replied Commander Kelso evenly. "However, a comparison with the DRADIS signatures of the vessels we encountered in orbit around the moon is a near perfect match."

"An alien fleet, then," muttered Adrian Kelso as he now looked back over at the markers on the projected chart.

"Would seem to fit," nodded Commander Kelso.

"And that is why you think they're on course for an engagement and not rendezvous," interjected Paul Bess thoughtfully, gently scratching the back of his neck as he looked at the chart.

"That many ships, seems unlikely they're simply throwing each other a party," replied Commander Kelso wryly.

"It looks more like a blockade," muttered Runel as he casually made his way over for a closer look at the chart, clipboard in hand.

"But a blockade of what?" asked Colonel Brianna Webber as she leaned in over the plot table. "No planet, no stations of any kind, what could they be protecting?"

"Maybe they've simply positioned themselves along the Earth fleet's axis of advance," offered Major Amanda Tyle.

"Doubtful," muttered Commander Kelso as he too stepped back over beside Runel. "We don't have anything firm, but the Raptors are detecting some anomalous energy signatures near the stationary fleet."

"What kind of anomalous readings?" asked his father, Adrian Kelso.

"Raptors are military scouts, not research craft," sighed Commander Kelso, himself more than a touch frustrated by that fact. "All we know is there's something there, but no idea _what_ that something is."

"But it's at least plausible that whatever 'it_'_ is it's what the stationary fleet is guarding," concluded Runel as he continued to look over the chart.

"Additionally, ever since our Raptors began following in trace, they have also detected literally dozens of contacts traversing the space between the two fleets," continued Commander Kelso as he began absently pointing at several areas near the two groups.

"Skirmishes?" asked Runel as he glanced over at the Commander.

"Our Raptors have managed to get a few images of some of the craft," replied Commander Kelso, gently nodding as he turned back to the assemblage. "What we believe are Earth fighters as well as several others that Captain Gaines has already confirmed are similar to those her team engaged on the moon surface."

"At the very least it would seem to indicate that each fleet is well aware the other is there," noted Colonel Webber as she continued to look over at the chart projection thoughtfully. "Question is, if they're outnumbered, and they _know_ it, why hasn't the Earth fleet changed course?"

"Maybe their ships are more powerful than the alien fleet?" offered civilian captain Jack Foster. "I mean, having superior numbers doesn't always signify superior strength."

"Possible," conceded Commander Kelso, leaning in over the separation railing for a moment, absently drumming his fingers on the railing itself.

His fingers still drumming, the collection around the room just quiet enough for the gentle drumming to echo a bit, Commander Kelso glanced back over his shoulder at the chart.

"But, somehow I doubt it," finished the Commander a moment later as he gently shook his head. "Something about this whole situation just feels…_wrong_."

Commander Kelso's eyes narrowed a bit as he looked at the chart, as if by simply looking at the chart he might be able to better divine what was about to happen.

Finally, letting out a long sigh, Commander Kelso looked out at the faces assembled around the large operations table.

"I'm not going to mince words over this situation people," he began, slowly looking from face to face. "Considering our supply situation and the fact that we have the welfare of over twenty-seven thousand civilians to consider, I feel making contact with the Earth fleet offers us the _best_ opportunity for long term survival."

Straightening up, Commander Kelso gave his uniform tunic a curt tug to straighten it. As he slowly shifted his gaze to the civilian captains around the table, Commander Kelso took a deep breath.

"But now comes the tricky part we have been tiptoeing around for months now," began Kelso as he absently motioned at the senior Colonial officers around the table. "I know I can issue orders to make contact with the Earth fleet and my officers will follow that command."

Pausing, Commander Kelso grinned a bit.

"But this isn't a dictatorship. And while we don't yet have an elected council yet, I'm not about to simply discard the principles of the republic that I swore to defend just as earnestly as I would any of the civilians in this fleet."

Glancing around the table, Commander Kelso intentionally made eye contact with each of the civilian captains, Paul Bess and his father included.

While his father had insisted more often than not these last months that his decrees alone should be sufficient for the other ship commanders to fall in line and follow, in that moment, looking into the elder Kelso's eyes, he could see that there was a measure of pride in the old man's eyes that his son was refusing to issue this particular command by fiat alone.

"So, ladies and gentlemen, I need to know from each of you, right now, for yourselves and as representatives of the refugees under your care, do we make contact with the Earth fleet or not?"

For a few moments, the question hung over the room.

While Commander Kelso was firm in his belief that contacting the Earth fleet offered them the best chance of survival and was relatively certain the civilian commanders would agree and follow his lead, he nevertheless felt compelled to put the question to them clearly and bluntly considering the incalculable ramifications that could result from the decision should they go ahead and make contact. This was their chance to offer dissent, openly, honestly, so there could be no ambiguity later on.

That was the strength and the weakness of true political democracy.

For a few moments, the civilians simply looked around at each other, almost as though they were daring one another to oppose making contact. But if there were any doubts amongst them, none spoke up. Instead, they each in turn simply ended up looking over to Adrian Kelso, in very real terms the senior-most in their own unofficial hierarchy, and nodded.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Adrian Kelso turned and looked over to his son.

"Well," he began, the barest hint of a grin on his aged face. "Waiting isn't going to make this any easier."

* * *

><p><strong>USS Saratoga<br>****Bridge**

"This isn't going to be easy," muttered Commodore Ross soberly as he stood looking over Lieutenant Rosary's shoulder at the LIDAR display.

While the sheer volume of hit-and-run attacks by Chig fighters left little doubt that a significant Chig task force was in the area, the fleet that Commodore Ross now saw arrayed against his weary battlegroup amounted to little more than a rout-in-waiting.

Letting out a long, steady breath, Ross slowly straightened up, clasped his hands behind his back, and made his way back to the upper gallery. As he moved, Ross was very much aware that the collective attention of everyone on the bridge, hell, everyone in his battered fleet, was on him.

Stoic, tired, Commodore Ross simply stood for a moment looking down at a chart of this region of space.

There was no arguing the facts; the Chigs had him and his fleet cornered.

In spite of his best efforts, the Chigs had managed to see through his feints and diversionary attacks and divine his true destination; the Banū Mūsā Wormhole. Worse still, they had more than enough firepower to ensure that neither the _Saratoga_ nor any other ships in his fleet made it through to safety.

In sheer numbers alone, the enemy had him outnumbered nearly two-to-one. When he also factored in that the Chigs were fielding a uniform force of capital ships against his mixed force of two carriers and a handful of escorts, Ross understood full-well just how grave his situation was.

"Sir?"

Pulled from his musings, Ross leveled little more than a glare at the sailor who'd called for his attention.

"What is it, Lieutenant Price?"

"Signal from the _Colin Powell_, Commodore," replied Price, her long, brunette hair pulled back in an unflattering knot. "Captain Norcia is inquiring as to how you wish to proceed."

Barely nodding in response, Ross turned back away and began making a slow circle around the mapping table.

The _Saratoga_ and _Powell_ were the sole remaining carriers of the Fifteenth Fleet, a mixed force of battered ships, Chinese, Russian, UK, even a straggling Canadian destroyer, the _St. Laurent_, from the now-long-since-presumed lost Twelfth Fleet.

Under his command, these ships had thus far survived some of the most harrowing and desperate combat in the war to date, truly punishing months fighting a delaying action to allow the bulk of IFOR to pull back.

He'd lost some good ships and far too many good people these last several months.

But try as he might, Commodore Ross had to face the plain, hard fact that the _Saratoga_ and her fleet no longer had sufficient fuel reserves to reach any other wormholes back to the Sol system. With the Earth forces in full retreat, supply lines had long since been severed weeks ago. If they even attempted to come about, Ross's entire fleet would find itself adrift and powerless in a matter of days for lack of fuel.

There was no lamenting it; it was simply the harsh reality of the situation in which they now found themselves.

Mustering his last reserves of personal strength, Ross made his way over to Lieutenant Price.

"Give me that mic, Lieutenant," said Ross evenly, holding out his hand as the young officer handed him the radio mic.

Mic in hand, Ross cleared his throat slightly, fighting against the lump he could feel forming in his throat.

To think it had come down to this…

"Put me through to the entire fleet," said Ross evenly.

With the flip of a couple switches on the communications panel, Price looked back over at Ross and gave the Commodore a curt nod.

"This is Commodore Ross," he began, his eyes doing little more than settling on the ominous LIDAR return just a couple panels over. "This has been a long war. We've all endured some very ruthless attacks and painful hardships. That is the price we all agree to in wearing the uniform."

Pausing, Ross finally looked away from the LIDAR and glanced around at the attentive faces surrounding him on the bridge.

"Now, I must ask you to steel yourselves for one last effort. Currently our enemy has deployed their fleet in a blockade around the mouth of the Banū Mūsā Wormhole, effectively cutting off our only retreat. We do not have sufficient fuel to reach any other safe port, so it is _here_ that we _must_ make our stand."

Letting out a long sigh, Ross paused.

"I wish there was another way, but we are left with no choice but to attempt to break through that blockade if we are to have any hope of seeing home again."

His gaze once more settling on the LIDAR, Ross took a breath. In that momentary pause, Ross heard someone on the bridge, though he didn't know who, whisper something that instantly stoked the smoldering embers of resistance within him into an inferno.

"I want to be clear; this is no suicide mission," continued Ross sternly, deliberately using the words he'd heard whispered. "A hundred and twenty years ago, during the Battle of Leyte Gulf, it was no suicide mission when a handful of lightly armed and armored destroyers and escort carriers through sheer audacity of action and indomitability of will turned away the superior heavy cruisers and battleships of the Japanese Center Force. It was an astonishing victory, won by men of immeasurable character."

"Of each and every one of you I expect no less."

"It is time once more to show the enemy the content of _our_ character by punching right through their blockade and making it to that wormhole."

Looking back around at the faces on the bridge, Ross tried to instill in them with nothing more than his commanding presence the resolution he felt. By their expressions, weary, crestfallen as they were, they were still ready to fight this fight.

"One more thing," continued Ross, his hand gripping the radio mic tightly, the action itself a manifestation of his sheer conviction. "I'll see you on the other side."

Handing the mic back to Lieutenant Price, Ross reached up, gave the brim of his cap a curt tug, and made his way back to the mapping table.

"Master-at-arms, sound General Quarters. Time to show the Chigs that what counts is not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog."


	4. Edge of the Precipice

**Warstar ****_Galactica  
><em>****Corridor**

Even as Gaines continued to lead him through the literal maze of corridors to wherever it was she was taking him, Captain Nathan West's mind continued to grapple with the utterly perplexing and profound revelation he felt he'd come to over the last several hours.

These people were human being who did _not_ come from Earth…

So many implications, profound, far reaching, even frightening could be gleaned from that one idea. So many in fact that he hadn't uttered so much as a word about it to his Marines once he'd returned from the flight with Gaines.

He hadn't even bothered to tell them they'd encountered Hawke's Hammerhead either.

Why?

Because if he had, he knew it would have simply opened the floodgates to a lot of other questions he knew he couldn't yet answer.

For better or worse, Nathan West felt the burden of knowing just how unusual a turn their situation had taken was his alone to bear for the time being.

Curiously, though, while West noted they'd regarded him and his Marines with a seemingly unusual amount of attention when they'd first come up from the moon, ever since, they seemed to have become far more at ease with their presence. Surely, if they were not in fact from Earth, as West had now firmly come to believe, weren't they just as perplexed about the existence of West and his people? Or were they simply better at hiding it?

Damned communication barrier…

How many questions could be definitively answered by five minutes of honest-to-God conversation?

As Gaines led him around what seemed like the hundredth turn, West finally shook off his internal musings and began to wonder exactly where it was his proverbial counterpart was taking him this time.

Only a few short hours ago, he'd been an observer aboard one of their recon flights, and yet West continued to feel none-the-wiser to the exact details of the circumstances evolving around him. Now though, Captain Nathan West sensed that he had somehow taken on an even greater importance to a group of people who seemed just as interested in breaching the language barrier in a meaningful way as he was.

No, perhaps even more.

Even now, he could sense the urgency in Gaines as she led him quickly through the corridors, he pace not quite a run, but far from leisurely.

At last, as the two of them rounded yet another corner…

…damn this ship was big…

…a heavily armed guard came into view.

As Gaines stepped up, she spoke a few quick words to the well-armed man in decked out in full combat gear.

Casting a suspicious glance over at West, the man nevertheless reached over to a keypad, tapped a few keys, then opened the sizeable hatch he was apparently guarding.

Motioning for West to follow, Gaines led him into a large compartment.

At first, it took a few moments for West to take in the entirety of the compartment he'd been led into. Not only was it an expansive space, like so many other areas of the ship he'd seen, it was also very much alive with activity, a myriad of crewmembers racing from one area to another as well as others working diligently at several stations.

In an instant, West realized where he was; this was the ship's bridge.

West felt somewhat taken aback by that one fact alone.

They had only known West for a few days, indeed 'known' only in the sense that they knew him to exist. With no common language, no meaningful way to communicate, like they were to him, so too was West little more than an observant stranger in their midst.

And yet, in spite of that, they had allowed him into the very heart of what was undeniably a very powerful vessel.

They trusted him enough to bring him here.

Or they needed something from him very badly.

But even as that thought was rattling about in his mind, Captain Nathan West was still very much in awe as he continued to take in what he was seeing around him. The few times he'd made his way up to _Saratoga_'s bridge, it too had been a bustle of activity, but not nearly to the degree he was seeing here.

All around the space were numerous screens and readouts, far more than he'd ever seen aboard the '_Toga_. Easily three times as many personnel were at work there too.

And right in the middle of the orchestrated chaos, standing with his attention firmly locked on a set of screens arrayed overhead was Gaines' CO, Kelso if West remembered correctly.

Even as he was still attempting to take in all that was around him, Gaines motioned for West to stand off to one side, out of the way of a couple rushing crewmembers, while she made her way over to Kelso.

As Gaines stepped up to her CO, the two of them trading a few words, West could see that Kelso was very much occupied with whatever he was observing on the screens overhead. After a few moments, Kelso finally looked over at West, and with little ceremony, motioned him over towards the large table situated beneath the screens.

As West stepped up he was able to read the undercurrent of tension in the demeanor of both Kelso and Gaines.

Looking at him somewhat hesitantly, Kelso seemed to brimming with as many questions for West as he was.

No, there was a greater sense of urgency in the CO's eyes, and an even greater aura of frustration.

Nevertheless, Kelso forced out a weak smile as he motioned for West to look up at one of the screens overhead.

As he focused in his attention, West saw that the screen was similar to the one he'd seen aboard the scout craft, presumably their equivalent to LIDAR. But, this display was larger, far more detailed than the one in the craft, and on it West was easily able to see the myriad of contacts rapidly closing in on one another.

Even as West continued to try and decipher exactly what it was he was looking at, Kelso barked out another order to someone else around the hectic bridge.

Somewhat confused, West simply stood looking at an expectant Kelso for a moment, unsure of what to make of the attention being paid to him.

Suddenly, a burst of static and shouts erupted from some speakers overhead.

Flinching at the sudden bombardment of sound, it took West a moment to focus enough to realize what he was actually listening to.

_English!_

But in the same moment that West realized he could actually understand what was being said, he also realized what was actually taking place.

A battle…

The voices being broadcast overhead were little more than clipped transmissions, calls for assistance, and a few last, desperate screams.

Worse still, West quickly realized he recognized some of the names being called, some of the callsigns, the voices of the people he knew being cut off in terrible shrieks as enemy fired ripped their fighters to pieces.

His eyes locked firmly with Kelso's gaze, West came to a firm, undeniable realization of what the signals on the screens overhead signified; somewhere very close by, the _Saratoga_ and her fleet were locked in a pitched battle against the Chigs.

And they were losing.

* * *

><p>Commander Sean Kelso stood watching the young man named West very carefully, watching his expression, gauging his reactions to the cacophony of desperation and terror that was echoing out through the CIC.<p>

Days of sifting through the wreckage recovered from the debris field by the Raptors had revealed relatively little, save one discovery; an intact wireless set.

Turned over to Major Malcolm Macedo and his computer team, a little reverse engineering had allowed them to not only discern what wireless frequencies the Earth fleet was using, but had actually allowed them to decipher some of the Earth fleet's encryption protocols.

Language might be a problem, but encryption was about mathematics; no matter the language, two plus two always equaled four.

While there had still been some question in Kelso's mind as to whether they'd truly be able to tap into the Earth fleet's communications, one look at West's face erased all doubt. While the Colonials themselves might not be able to fully understand the actual spoken content of the litany of chatter erupting overhead, it was clear from West's expression that he most certainly did.

But what Kelso was very much able to understand, indeed, what every last one of the crewmembers around CIC was able to comprehend, were the harsh, terrified cries of men and women dying, the last desperate screams of those whose final terrible moments in life were spent amid the sheer chaotic terror of frantic combat.

His own heart pounding in his chest, belying the façade of calm he fought to maintain, Kelso continued to watch West, cognizant of the frantic desperation percolating to the surface in the young man's eyes.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kelso glanced over at Gaines.

Standing there, her eyes shut, fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles were turning white, Gaines visibly flinched as another piercing scream echoed out across the CIC, only to be quickly overtaken in the dull rumble of an explosion before dissolving into static. Shaking her head, Gaines' attention suddenly snapped over to Kelso, the smoldering fire of anger in her eyes as she looked to the Commander.

As she stood there, breaths taken in rapid succession, Kelso could also see a desperation in her gaze as well, that terrible helplessness of feeling that there had to be _something_ that could be done…

Shaking her head slightly, stammering for something to say, Gaines jumped slightly as another cry erupted from the speakers overhead

"Sir," she whispered, her eyes locked firmly with his, choking back tears that threatened to well up in her eyes until at last she simply looked away.

Another series of desperate calls echoed out around the CIC, eliciting a gasp from across the main plot table. Looking over, Kelso saw Major Tyra Burke, normally so unflappable, now clearly stunned, silent, leaning heavily against the plot table, her shoulders slumped, her gaze distant, unfocused, gently shaking her head.

All around CIC, crewmembers were transfixed by the horrific spectacle echoing out from the speakers overhead. Some wept openly, other simply fumed in silent anger.

Right now, language didn't matter; terror transcended language.

So did rage.

* * *

><p>"What the hell is the matter with you people!" burst West angrily as he looked around at the people on the bridge. "God dammit, they're <em>dying<em> out there, don't you _understand_ what's happening?"

All around the bridge, it was clear that they understood at least the context of the horror they were listening to, and yet for all the anger and sorrow in the faces that surrounded him, West could see no sign of imminent action.

Whoever these people were, they knew damned well that people were being slaughtered out there, they had to know that the _Saratoga_ and her battlegroup were on the verge of being wiped out.

And yet, they seemed to be doing nothing to prevent it.

Desperate, West looked back into the eyes of the man named Kelso.

"You _have_ to do _something_!"

With his pulse racing, West stood there, looking into the CO's eyes, his heart seized with fury and desperation.

What good were these people, a ship this size, if they were simply going to stand there idle, impotent, while the Chigs slaughtered his friends, his shipmates?

And yet Kelso did little more than stand there and continue to look into his face, the CO's expression utterly impenetrable.

Overcome with sheer enraged helplessness, West suddenly reacted with the only impulse his racing heart screamed out as reasonable.

As ludicrous as it was, Captain Nathan West lunged towards the man named Kelso.

* * *

><p>Even as West suddenly lashed out towards him, Commander Sean Kelso was less startled by the sudden attack than he was by the blur of motion that was Captain Gaines and another Marine rushing in, practically tackling the young man before he managed to lay so much as a finger on the Commander.<p>

Within moments, several other crewmembers had likewise rushed in to try and subdue the trashing man.

"Get his arm!" burst Gaines as she pressed her entire body against West, practically pinning him to the deck at the base of the plot table.

"Frak, watch out for his feet!" snapped the Marine as he nearly received a heel kick to the head.

In spite of the veritable pile of bodies now on top of him, West continued to thrash about, to fight as the Marine guard and three other crewmembers finally succeeded in slipping a set of disposable restraints into place over West's wrists.

"There, we got him," called the Marine as he yanked the straps tight.

"Okay, get him up," sighed Gaines as she removed her knee from the back of West's neck, wiping at the thin film of sweat from her forehead as she did so.

"Get him down to the brig!" snapped Major Burke, slowly circling around from the other side of the plot table as she watched the group hoist West back to his feet.

"No, stop," countered Kelso flatly.

Stunned, Major Burke looked back over at Commander Kelso, speechless, questioning. For their part, Gaines and the Marine stood there obediently with West, hands now bound behind his back, firmly locked in their grip.

Taking a step closer to West, Kelso took a deep breath as he stared down into the young man's angry eyes, the horrific sounds of the raging battle continuing to filter down from overhead.

Frak…

Looking away from those angry eyes, Kelso looked back over at the myriad of contacts on DRADIS.

The Earth and alien fleets were fully engaged with one another…

Swarming like angry insects, the alien fighters surrounding the Earth ships, far outnumbering the wilding maneuvering Earth fighters…

Taking a deep breath, Kelso dipped his head for a moment.

The last moment of calm before the storm…

Looking back over at West, Kelso took another deep breath. While West's eyes still burned with a determined fire, he'd ceased struggling against Gaines and the other Marine, instinctively it seemed, understanding that something was about to change.

In that last moment of decision, Commander Sean Kelso knew one thing above all else…

Once I do this, there's no going back…

With the barest of nods, Kelso turned away from West, from the waiting Gaines and Marine, from the questioning gaze of Major Burke, and looked back up at DRADIS.

"Major Burke," snapped Commander Kelso flatly, leaning in over the plot table as his suddenly hawkish eyes focused on the screens overhead.

"Yes, sir?"

He may have already decided to act, but the weight on his shoulders at that final moment of truth was still burdensome.

Solemn, outwardly unreadable, the Commander took one last breath…

Sometimes the right decision was the hardest decision…

"Get on the One-MC; all hands, all decks," began Kelso, slowly looking over to his XO, his expression determined, unwavering. "Action Stations."

Instantly, Burke's eyes lit up, clearly surprised.

Hesitating for the briefest of moments, Burke nevertheless raced back around to her position on the other side of the plot table. Snatching up the handset, she fumbled for a moment to toggle the switch for the One-MC.

"Silence that overhead," snapped Kelso as he glanced over at Petty Officer Rocca at Communications.

"Aye, sir."

As the sounds of traumatic battle overhead abruptly ceased, casting the CIC into a surreal quiet, Burke successfully toggled the switch for the One-MC and lifted the handset to her ear.

"This is the XO; All hands; Actions Stations," said Burke, her voice echoing out through the speakers overhead. "Set Condition One throughout the ship; this is not a drill. I say again; Action Stations, Action Stations; set Condition One throughout the ship; this is _not _a drill. All sections report to Combat upon manning of Action Stations."

Even as Major Burke moved to place the handset back in its place on the side of the plot table, Kelso held up his hand to her.

"Now get back on the horn to the rest of the fleet, order and verify Condition One on all ships, have _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ launch their Alert Five Vipers to augment the current CAP around the fleet and ready their remaining squadrons for possible defensive sortie."

"Aye, Commander."

With that, Burke lifted the handset back to her ear and began relaying the information as ordered.

"Lieutenant Cortez," called Kelso, his eyes locked on the continuing battle taking place on DRADIS.

"Sir?"

"Grab a blank overlay, a grease pencil, and get your butt over here."

"Aye, Commander."

Glancing away from the DRADIS screen, Kelso looked once more over at West. Although he was still flanked by a ready Captain Gaines and Marine guard, he had more-or-less settled back down enough to be merely curious about the sudden change in activity around him.

"Fleet confirms Condition One, Commander," said Burke as she stood with the handset still pressed to her ear. "_Savitri_ and _Proteus_ are launching their Alert Five, remaining craft will be ready to launch in ten mikes."

"Very good," replied Commander Kelso simply as he watched Lieutenant Cortez make his way down to the plot table with the items requested.

"Shall I alert Major Culver and have our birds readied as well?" asked Burke.

"Have CAG get our birds ready, but they are to hold in the tubes," replied Commander Kelso as Lieutenant Cortez stepped up to the plot table.

Snatching up the blank overlay, Commander Kelso quickly laid it out across the table, took the grease pencil, and began making several marks on the acetate sheet as a curious Lieutenant Cortez, Major Burke, Captain Gaines and West all looked on.

"Okay," sighed Kelso as he looked up at the questioning eyes of his officers. "Here's the Earth fleet, and here's the alien fleet, arrayed in a blockade position. Cortez?"

"Sir?"

"I want you to plot me a jump, drop us in right here," continued Kelso, pointing at another mark he'd made with the grease pencil. "I want to come in parallel to the alien fleet's main line here at their center, drop us in at optimum weapons range. Avoid any possible crossfire between the two fleets, bring _Galactica_ in at a fifteen degree angle below the alien's line of resistance."

"Aye, sir," replied Cortez as he snatched back up the overlay and raced back towards the upper gallery.

"Sir, did I hear you correctly; only _Galactica_ is going in?" asked Burke as she dropped the handset down a bit from her ear.

"You heard me correctly, Major," sighed Commander Kelso as he looked back up at DRADIS, his eyes narrowing a bit. "We can't jump into a combat zone with the unarmed civilian ships, and we can't leave them here unguarded either. Advise Colonel Runel to take command of the remainder of the fleet and hold this position. If anything other than _Galactica_ shows up, he's to take whatever measures he feels necessary to protect the civilians."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, a slight smile creeping onto her lips.

As Burke put the handset back to her ear and began relaying the message, Captain Gaines stepped up beside Commander Kelso.

"What do you want us to do with him?" she asked, nodding her head over at the bound West.

"Cut him loose," said Kelso simply.

Gaines looked at the Commander questioningly, the struggle to subdue West only moments before still very much on her mind. Opening her mouth for the briefest of moments, she instead turned back to the Marine still flanking West, and gave him the slightest nod.

"You heard the Commander, Jackson; cut him loose."

"Aye, Captain," sighed Jackson as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small knife and cut the restraints around West's wrists.

As Jackson tossed the cut restraints into a receptacle beside the plot table, West stood massaging his visibly reddened wrists, casting a decidedly appraising glance at Commander Kelso.

Reaching over, Commander Kelso took hold of West's shoulder and gave him the slightest nod. Seeming to understand, West simply returned the subtle nod, his expression almost thankful.

Then Kelso had a thought…

"Petty Officer Rocca?" called the Commander as he stood there looking into West's eyes.

"Sir?"

"Get this man a wireless headset and be prepared to transmit on the Earth fleet's frequencies," said the Commander as he motioned over at West, then made his way back towards the plot table.

"Do you really want him to have a wireless headset, sir?" asked Burke, her voice somewhat muted as she leaned in a bit over the plot table, the handset still pressed to her ear.

"Just hedging my bets; having someone who can speak their language might come in handy," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he stood, eyes locked on the DRADIS screens.

"But how do you know what he's going to tell them?" asked Burke evenly as she looked warily back over at West. "Hell, _we_ don't even know what he's saying."

"We're about to jump in right on top of these peoples' heads," replied the Commander, his gaze never leaving the battle on the screens overhead. "Even if _we_ can't understand it, a little warning once we're there might be helpful. Now, what's our status, XO?"

"Colonel Runel acknowledges order to hold position, fleet is ready for full defensive operations," replied Burke instantly, returning her own attention to the DRADIS. "All decks are reporting Actions Stations manned and ready."

"Advise main and suppressive batteries to prepare for full salvo fires," said Commander Kelso evenly. "Main batteries are to load straight HE to assess effectiveness. I want them ready to lay down a wall of fire thick enough to walk across, but make sure they're watching DRADIS to avoid felling any possible friendlies."

"Understood."

While Major Burke was relaying the orders, Commander Kelso kept his eyes locked on DRADIS.

"Are you sure this is the right decision, Commander?" asked Captain Gaines, her voice barely a whisper as she too stood watching the screen overhead.

"Were you sure it was the right decision to fight back on that moon?" countered Commander Kelso, his eyes never leaving the screen. "When you made the decision to put your team in harm's way, could there be any way for you to know for certain it was the right decision?"

Taking a breath, Gaines opened her mouth to answer, but hesitated.

Picking up on the hesitation, Kelso looked over at her, the slightest smirk on his lips.

"We can never be certain of our actions, Captain, but we can certainly act."

"All batteries report ready to commence fire per your orders, Commander," said Burke as she set the handset back into place.

Back into place a little too hard…

Glancing across the plot table, Commander Kelso saw his XO shaking her head slightly, visibly annoyed, apparently because Gaines was standing so close to him.

Clearing his throat slightly, Commander Kelso looked back up at DRADIS.

"Very good, Major," he said simply.

"Jump has been plotted, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez from the upper gallery. "Ready to initiate FTL on your order."

Snatching up the handset on his side of the plot table, Commander Kelso quickly toggled the switch for the One-MC.

"This is the Commander, all hands, prepare for combat jump," he began, glancing around CIC at all the expectant faces of his crew. "Time for this ship to once again demonstrate why she's called a Warstar."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

Reaching up, Commodore Glen van Ross gripped onto the railing and with a single heave hauled himself back to his feet in spite of the wildly pitching deck.

"DC teams report multiple fires forward of frame seven-zero, Commodore!" called Lieutenant Adam Sheridan as he stood by the Damage Control station, a sound powered phone pressed firmly to his ear. "That last hit buckled a section of the bow near the fore-port three-double-ought mount!"

"Sir, the _Nebraska_ has suffered critical damage to her engineering sections and her fuel tanks have been breached; her CO has ordered abandon ship!" shouted Lieutenant Jennifer Price as she fought to keep on her feet. "_Powell_ reports her main reactors are down, all power cut to anti-ship batteries!"

As he listened to the reports continue to come in from his senior officers, Commodore Ross caught sight of his cover as it rolled back into view from underneath the mapping table. Defiant, indignant even, he lashed out with one hand, snatched up his cover, and slipped it back into place on top of his head.

"Helm, bring us to Port, interpose us between the Chig line and the _Powell_," called Ross as another hard blast slammed into the _Saratoga_. "Petty Officer Brooks, alert the flight deck, I want a SAR bird in the air at a moment's notice to pick up the _Nebraska_'s survivors!"

"Aye, sir."

"Lieutenant Price, I want you to get on the horn to the _Powell_ and find out how long before they have their reactors back up."

Before Price even had an opportunity to acknowledge the order, however, yet another series of blasts ripped across the hull of the _Saratoga_, rocking the entire ship, tossing several officers and enlisted personnel alike about the bridge like rag dolls.

"Main propulsion is down, Commodore!" called Lieutenant Sheridan even as the ship continued to quake under the torrent of smaller impacts from a group of Chig fighters racing in along the dorsal side of the _Saratoga_. "Bow thrusters are frozen in an open position, we are losing attitude control!"

"Get on the horn and get me some damned fighter support, Lieutenant Price!"

"Aye, sir," replied an exasperated Price as she tried to adjust her headset back into place.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

Watching with grim satisfaction as the burst from his forward cannon ripped through another Chig fighter, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes didn't wait for the full fireball to erupt as he yanked hard on the controls, pitching the nose of his Hammerhead around to engage the six Chig fighters LIDAR had tagged at his six.

But even as he was making his wide turn, Hawkes was startled by something slamming into his cockpit.

A split second of sheer terror later, Hawkes didn't hear the screeching alert of damage alarms; it hadn't been weapons fire…

But from the significant smear of blood across his forward canopy, Hawkes guessed he had haplessly slammed into a body…

He could only hope the pilot had already been dead when they'd been smeared across his canopy…

Fighting against the heavy G-forces pinning him back against his seat, Hawkes pulled the Hammerhead into an even tighter turn as he saw the six Chig fighters pulling into a perfect kill position to his rear.

Then, just as suddenly, Hawkes slammed his control yoke over the opposite direction, a hard jink to try and throw the Chigs off.

Three of them lost their bead.

The other three reacted just a little faster and managed to stay on his tail.

"Dammit," he groaned, the G-forces making it difficult for him to breath.

"_This is the _Saratoga_, we need immediate fighter support…_"

The short transmission, already terribly garbled by Chig interference, suddenly cut off, the sound of explosions able to be heard in the background.

Pulling back hard on his control yoke, Hawkes nosed his Hammerhead into another harrowing turn, this time one that would take him back towards his besieged carrier.

As the battle taking place around the _Saratoga_ and other ships swung back into view, Hawkes' eyes went wide.

He'd seen some pretty hairy furballs over the course of the war, but the sheer number of Chig craft that were swarming over the fleet seemed to defy his mind's ability to comprehend.

Chunks of debris, ripped hulls, pulverized fighters tumbling aimlessly, powerlessly through the void, laser discharges crisscrossing the blackness of space, ripping into anything, everything in their path. Breaches in the hulls of the battered fleet spewed columns of fire out into the breathless void that were quickly extinguished.

All around, space itself seemed to be on fire, enraged.

And hovering menacingly beyond the carnage, like a line of despots too haughty to become involved in the bloodbath themselves, instead delegating the massacre to their underling fighters, were the Chig battleships.

Unreachable…

Unassailable…

Unmerciful…

Gritting his teeth in anger, very much cognizant of the fact that three Chig fighters were still very much on his tail, Hawkes slammed his throttle full open and raced in towards the harassing swarm enveloping the _Saratoga_.

Pressing down hard on the trigger, Hawkes unleashed a torrent of canon fire as he raced across the midsection of his listing carrier, unaware even as he was doing so that he was screaming at the tops of his lungs.

An infuriated scream…

A _primal_ scream…

As he left a swath of pulverized Chig fighters in his wake, still more veering sharply away to avoid his near-suicidal charge, Hawkes yanked his control yoke to come around for another pass…

…just as he saw a bright flash of light behind the line of Chig battleships.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

"Holy _shit_!"

Even as the deck continued to pitch beneath his feet, Commodore Glen van Ross drew a breath, ready to deliver a curt rebuke to whomever it had been who'd just used profanity on his bridge.

Die they might in less than a minute's time, but Commodore Glen van Ross was damned determined he would not allow proper decorum to die first.

But even before the first reprimand left his lips, Commodore Ross's eyes went wide as he caught sight of the LIDAR display.

Holy _shit_ indeed.

Clear as day on the _Saratoga_'s LIDAR there was a new contact; the _biggest_ damned contact he'd ever seen.

It dwarfed the _Saratoga_ and every other ship in his fleet.

Hell, it dwarfed almost all of his ships _combined_.

And it had just appeared directly behind the center of the Chig battle line

"Where the hell did _that_ come from?" he snapped angrily as he struggled against uncertain footing on a pitching deck towards the LIDAR station.

"I don't know, sir," replied Lieutenant Kieth Rosary, his tone one of near panic. "It just…_appeared_."

"What do you mean it just '_appeared_'?" growled Commodore Ross as he gripped onto the railing. "Something that damned big doesn't just pop out of _nowhere_, Lieutenant!"

"That thing _did_, sir," replied Rosary flatly.

As Ross drew a breath to continue pushing Rosary for a more suitable answer, the LIDAR station erupted in a series of new audible alarm warnings.

Before anyone could react, a new series of hard impacts reverberated through the _Saratoga_. Fighting to keep hold against the shuddering of the entire vessel, the racing hearts of the bridge crew leapt just a few more beats ahead of normal as the main overhead lighting cut out, casting the bridge into darkness.

Peering into the murkiness around him, Commodore Ross took a solemn, dejected breath; without power, the _Saratoga_ was helpless. Dipping his head somewhat, Ross knew it would doubtless be only a matter of moments now before he heard the terrifying sound of weapons fire cracking open the hull around the bridge, casting him and his people into either the fiery oblivion of a runaway fusion explosion, or out into the infinitely cold vacuum of space.

But as the first few moments of darkness passed without any further weapon impacts, Ross and everyone else around the bridge waited out the pensive silence as the ship's quaking abruptly ceased.

With what they'd believed to be their last breaths held in baited anticipation of the worst, there was an almost collective sigh of relief around the bridge as the darkness was excised a moment later by the emergency lighting coming on.

In the dull red glow of the emergency lights, Ross held onto the railing and his tongue while Lieutenant Rosary began frantically adjusting several controls in order to reboot the LIDAR computer. But even in the faint red light, Ross could see the young officer's face, his expression one of absolute confusion as the screen once more came to life.

"What the hell is happening out there, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, I…" began Rosary, pausing for a moment, indeed, actually chuckling a bit. "I think that…_thing_…is firing on the Chigs."

"_What_?" burst Ross, practically vaulting over the rail towards the LIDAR station.

"Whatever that contact out there is, Commodore, they've engaged the Chig battleships."

"Which Chig Battleships, Lieutenant; the center, the flanks, which ones?"

While Ross was by no means immediately convinced that whatever it was that had just appeared on LIDAR was friendly, if it _was_ indeed firing on the Chig battleships, it might just open up enough of a hole for his fleet to punch through to the Banū Mūsā Wormhole.

But as Ross waited for his answer, he was surprised when Rosary let out another weak chuckle.

"Which Chig ships are under attack, Lieutenant?" prodded Ross as he focused his attention on the LIDAR screen.

"_All_ of them, Commodore."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

"Right on the dot," muttered Commander Kelso approvingly as he noted the _Galactica_'s new position on DRADIS. "Excellent job, Lieutenant Cortez."

Leaning in over the plot table, Commander Kelso eyes narrowed a bit.

"Helm, angle us ten degrees down to Starboard, give our main Port batteries an optimum angle of fire," began Commander Kelso, his fingers lightly drumming on the plot table as he eyed the line of alien warships hungrily.

"Aye, sir, answering ten degrees down to Starboard," replied Petty Officer Chapman as he adjusted the ship's attitude.

Snatching up the handset on his side of the plot table, Kelso toggled the switch to Battery Plot.

"This is Actual," he snapped as the handset reached his ear. "You have DRADIS signatures of preapproved targets, bring all Port side and actionable Dorsal batteries online, advise Combat once you have verified targets."

"Shall I scramble our fighters, Commander?" asked Major Burke as she reached down for her handset.

"Hold them for now," snapped Commander Kelso flatly as he set his own handset back in its place. "That's a hell-of-a melee out there, and neither side knows who we are. I don't want to sortie our fighters into the middle of that mess and have them come under fire from both sides."

"Understood, Commander," replied Burke, pulling her hand back away from the handset as she cast her eyes back to the screens overhead.

"Sir, optimum firing position has been achieved, all main batteries report firm target acquisition," called Lieutenant Cortez.

"All batteries, commence full salvo fire," replied Commander Kelso, his hawkish eyes locked on DRADIS. "Put them on their knees."

Moments later, the sound of the ships main batteries firing began reverberating through the entire ship.

The decision made, Commander Sean Kelso watched, waited, having brought his ship very much into harm's way. Moreover, Kelso was very much cognizant of the fact that he had made his decision with no hard evidence that his ship would have any impact on the battle at hand.

But as the massive Warstar _Galactica_ once more plunged into the maelstrom of combat, her mighty cannons hammering away with punishing effect, even Commander Sean Kelso, the man who'd overseen the ship's construction almost from the first keel welding, found himself shocked as the initial damage assessments started scrolling across the screens overhead.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

Even as he fought desperately to evade the torrent of weapons fire erupting from the Chig fighters behind him, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes was forced to shut his eyes against the blinding flash of explosions ripping across the entire line of Chig battleships.

Moments ago so seemingly unreachable…

So perceptibly unassailable…

So decidedly unmerciful…

Now it was they themselves receiving no mercy from the massive vessel that had appeared with the bright flash of light directly behind the center of their line.

Only moments after its decidedly shocking appearance, the massive vessel had erupted in a hail of weapons fire that surpassed anything Hawkes had seen put out by entire battle groups.

And as those weapons fired, the ominous line of Chig warships began to crumble.

As the punishing cannonade continued to slam into all the vessels of the Chig main line, there was little they could do as some of the impacts tore clean through their structures. Large chunks of debris were quickly sheared away, explosively blown free and sent tumbling into space.

So rapidly had the pounding fire cut into the Chig battleships that not a single one at the very center of their line was able to make more than a token attempt to maneuver out of the way as a torrent of explosions continued to rip through each of the warships.

Within moments of the initial barrage, the first three battleships at the very center of the Chig line suddenly vanished in blinding explosions.

As he sat, trying in vain to blink away the spots in his vision left by the detonations, Hawkes began to hear all forms of excited chatter filter in over the fighter-tac.

"_Oh my God; did you see that shit_?"

"_That mother's taken out three already_!"

"_Who's ship is that? The French_?"

"_Who cares, whoever they are, they've got the Chigs on the run_!"

"_God damn, look at that; they're retreating, the Chigs are retreating_!"

Retreating hell, the Chigs were panicking.

Glancing down at his LIDAR, Hawkes watched, heart rising into his throat with elation as the three Chig fighters that had been attempting to rip him apart suddenly veered away from their attack. In fact, as he glanced out past his canopy, Hawkes saw that _all_ the Chig fighters that had been besieging the fleet were pulling away, even as four more of their battleships vanished under the punishing fire being laid down by the massive new arrival.

Not content to merely let the Chigs get away, Hawkes yanked the nose of his Hammerhead around, thumbed the selection switch for missile engagement, and launched two Rattlers at one of the retreating Chig fighters.

Grinning in grim satisfaction, Hawkes saw both missiles tear into the retreating Chig craft, the explosion hurtling shattered debris off into the void.

As the fireball of the dying Chig fighter was extinguished in the cold vacuum, Hawkes began to throttle back, watching the truly delightful spectacle of the Chigs racing away in nothing short of sheer terror.

Apparently caught as unawares by the arrival of the massive warship as the Earth forces, the Chigs were opting to try and get as many of their ships away from the devastatingly effective fire ripping into their armada, their utterly disorganized actions tantamount to conceding that any attempt to counterattack the new arrival was the equivalent of suicide.

As he continued to watch the truly awe-inspiring sight of the remaining Chig fleet running away en masse, Hawkes suddenly heard a crackle of static cut in over the fighter-tac. Taking in deep, steadying breaths as he watched the enemy fighters race away, Hawkes slowly continued to pull back on his throttles as a voice cut in over the channel, indeed, all channels.

A voice which immediately sent a chill racing up Hawkes' spine.

"_This is Captain Nathan West, Fifty-Eighth Squadron, United States Marine Corps_."

His eyes wide with sheer disbelief, Commodore Glen van Ross stared blankly at the LIDAR screen as the Chigs continued their panicked withdrawal.

But even more shocking than the enemy's forced departure was the voice that had come in over every radio, every channel in the fleet.

"_I say again this is Captain Nathan West of the Fifty-Eighth Squadron, call-sign King of Hearts, do not fire on this vessel; they are here to help_."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

"I want confirmation on that transmission immediately!" snapped Commodore Ross as he all but glared over at the equally stunned Lieutenant Price.

"Aye, sir," she muttered weakly, fumbling a moment before finally looking back over at Ross. "What exactly am I to confirm, sir?"

"Find out where the hell it's coming from, Lieutenant!"

"Aye, sir."

Returning his attention to the LIDAR while he waited for the confirmation, Commodore Ross watched as the Chigs attempted to regroup, both flanks of their blockade line turning away from their shattered center, picking up speed as they attempted to get away from the massive contact.

"_Well_, Lieutenant?"

"Transmission definitely originated from the new contact, Commodore," replied Price as she watched several lines of data scroll across the Communication screen. "Voice print ID confirmed; it _is_ Captain West's voice."

"That's _not_ possible," muttered Ross, leaning in on the rail, his head shaking slightly as he focused in on the massive vessel on LIDAR. "It _can't_ be West."

Had Hawkes been right after all?

Had he indeed seen his long-lost squadron mate aboard some unknown type of craft?

If so, _who_ the hell were they?

The few months they'd been behind enemy lines wasn't enough time for Earth to build a ship as massive as the one that had appeared out there, not even with _every_ resource of _every_ nation working together.

It was too big…

Even constructing a shipyard large enough to build something that massive would have bankrupted the entire world economy alone…

No, there _had_ to be another explanation.

"Shall I try to hail that ship, sir?" asked Lieutenant Price.

His eyes narrowing a bit, but never once leaving the LIDAR, Commodore Ross considered it.

"Belay that for now," he finally answered. "We'll have plenty of time to try and figure out who they are later. What we cannot afford to do is squander the time their arrival has bought us. Away the SAR birds for the _Nebraska_'s survivors and get me a damage report from the rest of the fleet."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

"We have shattered the center of their line, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez. "Looks like their fighters have broken off their attack on the Earth fleet and are forming up around the surviving alien capital ships."

As he watched the drastic turn of events continue to unfold, Commander Kelso couldn't help but indulge in a slight grin. Not only had they managed to take the alien fleet completely by surprise, but any doubts, even his own, as to the effect their presence had on the battle were readily dispelled.

Modern DRADIS targeting systems, barring any interference from active jamming, were able to put effective rounds onto a target the size of Viper at twenty-five hundred kilometers. As _Galactica_ continued to pour round after round into the alien fleet with devastating effect, it was clear, not only did the alien fleet have no apparent way to jam DRADIS, but at their current distance and deflection angle, it was like firing into the military equivalent of the broadside of a barn.

Taking a moment to glance back over his shoulder at West, Commander Kelso saw the relief in the young man's expression. As West looked back over at Kelso, he gave the slightest but no less appreciative of nods.

While he had no way of knowing what message West had sent out to the Earth fleet, Commander Kelso was at least thankful of the fact that _whatever_ he'd said had apparently been enough to prevent the Earth fleet from attacking _Galactica_.

At least for the moment…

Returning his attention to the DRADIS, Commander Sean Kelso began gently drumming his fingers on the plot table as he watched the alien warships continue to flee from the devastated debris field that had been the center of their line. With seven of their capital ships now little more than shattered wreckage, _Galactica_'s highly accurate fire all but pulverizing the center of their blockade, the flanks were desperately attempting to escape.

"They've peeled off from the center," muttered Major Burke as she watched the aliens' hasty retreat. "Two separate groups; should we pursue?"

"Any indication of counterattack?" asked Commander Kelso flatly.

"Negative, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez. "Looks like we've got them on the run…wait, disregard my last, sir, I've got a large group, approximately one-hundred fighters coming about, CBDR with _Galactica_, ETA, four minutes."

"Suppressive batteries, prepare to engage incoming enemy fighters," snapped Burke, the handset barely to her ear before the first words had left her mouth.

Pausing, she placed her hand over the voice receiver for a moment as she looked across the plot table.

"Shouldn't we prepare for evasives, Commander?" asked Burke evenly.

His fingers pausing, Commander Kelso glanced across at her for a moment, then returned his gaze to DRADIS overhead.

"Status of the Earth fleet?" he asked.

"Holding position, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez. "Looks like they're trying to consolidate; their fighters have pulled into an air-defense position around their capital ships."

"What do you want to do, sir?" prodded Burke, her gaze movingly expectantly from the screens overhead to the Commander.

"We've already put one foot in and tested the waters, Major, might as well dive full-in," replied Commander Kelso evenly, his eyes never leaving the mass of alien fighters streaking in towards _Galactica_. "Pass the word; launch Vipers."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, reaching down, toggling the switch for the flight deck. "This is Combat; launch Vipers, I say again, launch Vipers."

"Have the suppressive batteries establish a flak perimeter at five-hundred once our fighters have cleared," continued Commander Kelso as he reached down for the handset on his side of the plot table.

"Aye, sir," replied Burke as she toggled the switch back to Battery Plot and relayed the order.

Toggling his own handset switch to tie into the Viper-tac, Commander Kelso raised the handset to his ear, his eyes returning to DRADIS as the first Vipers sallied forth from _Galactica_'s launch tubes.

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<strong>

Gently flexing his gloved fingers around the control stick, Major Thomas Culver felt the kick of acceleration suddenly drop off as his Viper sailed clear of the launch tube.

He quickly remedied that loss of G-forces by slamming his throttles full open.

Glancing down at his DRADIS, Culver watched as Viper after Viper continued to emerge from the _Galactica_, rapidly falling into formation as they raced out to meet the alien fighters that were rapidly closing in.

In truth, Culver had been more than a touch surprised when the order to launch had come down from CIC. Up till now, Commander Kelso had shown an inclination for relying more on capital ship engagements, large ship-to-ship battles. While this sheltered his pilots from the perils of ACM, it still left Culver with the sense that the Commander was omitting a crucial tactical instrument from his combat repertoire.

Well, so much for _that_ idea…

Pondering it for a moment, Culver came to just one conclusion; having committed his forces to this battle, the Commander _really_ wanted to make a show of force.

And that suited Culver just fine; he was a pilot, and by his reckoning, pilots belonged in the air.

Glancing back down at DRADIS, Culver knew that while some of his pilots were still somewhat lacking for experience, they were nonetheless readily pulling into their textbook support formations, grouping up two-by-two.

Looking around his cockpit, Major Culver couldn't help but smile a bit.

When the air wings had been shuffled about, redistributed amongst the three carriers of the fleet for optimized effectiveness, most of the Mark-Sevens had been parceled out to _Proteus_ and _Savitri_ for simplicity's sake; streamlining logistics aboard the older carriers simply made sense. But the reverse of that decision was that _Galactica_ carried all of the older fighters; Mark-Twos, Mark-Fours, Mark-Sixes. While being the CAG certainly afforded him the right to have one of the Mark-Sevens still aboard _Galactica_, Culver had opted, mostly for nostalgic reasons, to adopt one of the Mark-Twos as his own.

Now, streaking in towards his first real ACM since their escape from the Colonies, Culver couldn't help that tiny voice in the back of his head that was questioning the wisdom of that decision.

Well, nothing he could do about that now…

"This is Longrifle," began Culver, thumbing the transmit button for the squadron-tac. "Now's not the time for nugget-mistakes, people, make sure your safeties are off; switch master arm to active."

For the next several moments the wireless was alive with calls of acknowledgement.

As he focused his eyes in on the tens of dozens of silhouettes that were coming into view beyond his canopy, Culver suddenly heard the squadron-tac once again crackle to life.

"_This is _Galactica_-Actual_," began the calm voice of Commander Kelso. "_Red team you are go for direct engagement; Blue team hold at one-thousand as reserve in case of breakthrough; _Galactica_ will establish flak barrier at five-hundred, so watch your vectors. Analysis indicates enemy likes to operate in groups of three, anticipate them attempting to jump in on you from your high-six. Good hunting, people_."

"Okay, you heard the boss," began Culver as the Commander ceased transmission. "Red, you're with me; Blue, pick off any stragglers. Now _Galactica_ may have hit their motherships hard, but don't get overconfident; stick to your wingman and watch your six, and for frak's sake, stay out of _Galactica_'s firing solution. Stupid mistakes will get you just as dead, don't hand these bastards any gimmes. I'll see you when it's over."

As a series of acknowledgments filtered back in over the wireless-tac, Culver glanced down at DRADIS and saw that his planes were nearing the engagement line.

Taking a deep breath, he looked back out at the now much-larger silhouettes closing in fast; sleek tri-wing designs, no visible cockpits.

Well, now or never…

Glancing out to his left, Culver saw with no small satisfaction that his wingman, a nugget with the curious call-sign of 'Spoon' was sliding into the slot in a somewhat larger Mark Four.

Flexing his hands around the control stick, Culver took a deep, steadying breath, reached up and gave each of the straps holding him in place one final, firm tug before settling back into his seat.

"Okay, time for a gunfight," he sighed, toggling the transmit button a moment later. "Let's go to work, people."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

As he stood there amid the purposeful chaos of the _Saratoga_'s bridge, Commodore Glen van Ross was very much a man of two minds.

The first and most foremost of his mental energies were being spent on the continued assessment and consolidation of his battered fleet. Although the new, unknown arrival had most decidedly broken the Chig blockade, shattering the center of their lines and sending the flanks into a hasty retreat, Ross knew that it was still very possible that his fleet could still be reengaged by the enemy.

Then, there was the mystery of the unknown vessel itself. In spite of the ship having broken the blockade, indeed, in spite of the fact that they apparently received a message from Nathan West from that ship, Commodore Ross was by no means ready to simply assume that it was by default a friendly vessel.

This war had already seen numerous moments where victory, or at least a favorable turn of events, was seemingly within grasp, only to have it snatched away for him to simply accept anything at face value anymore.

Like most of his exhausted crew, Ross had simply grown too worn and war-weary to be capable of accepting situations on blind faith alone.

Pragmatic almost to a fault, he needed absolute, undeniable, unassailable proof.

And yet, there was still a voice within him that seemed to scream that it made no sense that this was somehow a Chig deception.

Quite simply, what would have been the point?

Only a few minutes ago, the Chigs had been on the verge of completely wiping out his battered forces; they'd had them dead-to-rights.

It made no sense to engage in such a colossal deception, most especially since deception had never been the Chigs' particular forte.

And it was from that voice, that lone thought that a seed of hope, true hope, seemed to find purchase.

If one alien species existed, perhaps, was there yet another?

After two long, bloody years of war, was it possible that they at last had an ally?

Shaking himself from his own musings, Ross focused his attention back in on the LIDAR.

While the unknown contact all but dominated the screen, Ross could also see that there was a large contingent of Chig fighters closing in on the massive vessel. Furthermore, the Commodore also saw that the large ship, itself also evidently a carrier, had sent up an equally substantial fighter force of its own to intercept the Chigs.

Almost in spite of himself, Ross actually found himself hoping that the unknown fighters were as equally adept at downing Chig fighters as their carrier was at felling Chig battleships.

"Give me a status report," called Ross as he continued to watch the LIDAR hawkishly.

"SAR teams have begun picking up the survivors from the _Nebraska_, Commodore," began Lieutenant Price as she handed a clipboard over to Ross. "_Powell_ is reporting a successful restart of her primary reactors; she should have main propulsion back up within the hour."

"What about _our_ damage?" asked Ross, his eyes giving the printout on the clipboard barely a cursory glance before returning to the LIDAR.

"Primary fuel lines to the bow thrusters have been severed, sir," replied Lieutenant Sheridan.

"Try rerouting the fuel through the secondary feed lines," said Ross, all but glaring over at Sheridan.

"We can't do that, Commodore," replied Sheridan flatly, shaking his head slightly as he avoided Ross' glare.

"Why not?"

"Damage from the fires towards the bow have also knocked out the supply line monitors, Commodore," continued Sheridan. "We've got no readings to verify that the secondary lines haven't been ruptured."

"And if we route fuel into them and they _are_ ruptured it will only add literal fuel to the fire," sighed Ross, rubbing at the knot forming in his neck.

"Until we can be sure, we're going to have to depend on the midship and aft thrusters," finished Sheridan.

"Which means our maneuverability will be sluggish at best," noted Ross, the knot in his neck tightening a bit more. "What about the fires themselves?"

"Contained for the moment, sir," began Sheridan once more. "DC teams estimate it could be another hour at best before they are fully extinguished."

"That's not good enough, Lieutenant," growled Ross as he finally gave up on trying to loosen the knot in his neck. "Those enemy battleships aren't nearly far enough away to count them out of this fight just yet. They could still double back and finish what they started."

"Yes, sir," sighed Sheridan, shaking his head slightly as he returned his attention to the task of directing the myriad of DC teams.

Ross knew he seemed to be asking the impossible.

But he also knew he wasn't, no, he _couldn't_ simply depend on the unknown vessel for his fleet's survival.

What he said was accurate, the Chig battleships had by no means departed the combat zone and could still very well regroup for a counterattack, colossal unknown warship or not.

And yet, as he stood there, watching as the two fighter forces, the Chigs and the one fielded by the massive vessel, engaged one another, Ross found himself once more daring to believe what his eyes were seeing; that he and his people had indeed been given a reprieve, whomever their benefactors actually turned out to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

As he sat, his engines all but idle, his fighter hovering protectively over the wounded _Saratoga_, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes watched as the telltale trails of weapons fire stitched across the blackness of space.

A lot of weapons fire…

And in spite of the fact that he'd only just barely found himself pulled from amid one hairy furball of a fight, Hawkes nevertheless found himself itching to quit being a mere spectator, eager to punch his throttles to the max and jump into the one unfolding before him.

With a quick glance, Hawkes checked his remaining ordnance count and saw that he still had four Rattler AMRAAM's tucked beneath his wings. Those plus his forward cannon could still put one hell-of-a dent in the Chigs' TO and E.

"Jack-of-Spades to _Saratoga_."

"_Go ahead, Jack-of-Spades_."

"Request permission to break from perimeter and pursue engagement with the enemy," asked Hawkes hungrily as he saw several dim explosions in the distance.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

"Commodore?"

"What is it, Lieutenant Price?" sighed Commodore Ross, his eyes never leaving the LIDAR.

"Jack-of-Spades is requesting permission to close and engage with the Chig fighter force, sir."

"He's requesting to do _what_?" asked Ross, his voice all but conveying the naked disbelief he felt as he looked over at the young woman.

"Jack-of-Spades is requesting permission to break off from the defense perimeter and reengage the enemy."

Shaking his head, Ross was about to sputter out a flat denial to the request, but stopped.

He knew Hawkes, knew the man's tendencies for disobedience all too well; the InVitro's reputation for bucking authority was well earned.

If Ross denied the request, it was all too likely that Hawkes would probably just fake a radio malfunction and rush off on his own anyway no matter how much omen of doom Ross tried to force into his tone.

At last, letting out a long, almost resigned sigh, Commodore Ross looked back over at the waiting Lieutenant Price.

"Give me that mic, Lieutenant," said Ross as he held out his hand to her.

Handing Ross the mic, Price glanced back over at the Communication console, gave the Petty Officer manning it a slight nod, then looked back over at Ross.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

"_Jack-of-Spades, this is Boss Ross_."

His ears perking up a bit, Hawkes prepared himself for what he was certain would be a flat denial of his request.

"_I will not allow you to race off on any lone-wolf missions_," continued Ross, his tone even, firm.

Slowly, Hawkes reached up and wrapped his fingers around the throttles…

Wouldn't be the first time he'd disobeyed an order…

Maybe if he faked a radio malfunction…

"_As such I am ordering you to break off with support_," finished Ross, the statement all but catching Hawkes completely by surprise. "_Keegan, Low and Stone, you will accompany_."

The barest hint of a smile curling the edge of his lips, Hawkes looked out as three Hammerheads sidled up beside his own.

While he was inclined to not want any other pilots on his wing, Hawkes was not about to blow his chance of getting back into the fight by arguing with Commodore Ross over the issue either.

Moreover, he wasn't exactly being saddled with boot pilots.

He knew all three pilots well, at least, well enough; Stone and Low had both been assigned to the Fifty-Eighth early in the war before being sent to augment other squadrons. As for Keegan, he'd been a warrant officer aboard the '_Toga_ flying ISSCV's before earning a full commission. Because of his relatively high age of thirty-two, the very definition of old for a First Lieutenant, he now flew Hammerheads under the call-sign 'Gramps'. But if his age was unusual for someone starting a career in fighters, the times Keegan had flown on Hawkes' wing gave no indication that it in any way hampered his ability to come out on top in a knife-fight with the Chigs.

"_Jack, this is Rocky_," called Lieutenant James Stone as he waggled his wings slightly. "_We're formed up on your nine, three and five, waiting for your word_."

"Copy, that," smiled Hawkes as he pulled a flash drive diskette from his flight suit pocket and slid it into his cockpit audio system. "Shock and Rocky; you pair up. Gramps, you take my wing."

"_How do you want to play this_?" asked Lieutenant Michelle Low, call-sign Shock, an informal acronym for Shit-Hot Ovulating Chig Killer.

"Simple two-by-two play," replied Hawkes as he punched a few buttons, accessing the diskette. "Rocky, you and Shock go low to the outside, break across their advance; Gramps, you cover my six, we'll go in from on high."

"_Okay, Hawkes, I know you've got something over there to help get the blood pumping_," began Low, the grin on her face almost audible. "_What's the soundtrack for this furball going to be_?"

For a moment, Hawkes paused.

Lieutenant Michelle Low had been with the Fifty-Eighth during the Battle of the Belt when Hawkes had defied orders to hold position and jumped in on a Chig squadron, the pounding rhythm of the Ramones blaring through his cockpit as he did so.

"I might have something, Low, but it's a bit harder than you might be ready for," replied Hawkes as he prepared to pipe his audio feed onto an alternate, indeed, officially unsanctioned radio channel. "If you really want a taste, switch over to the freelance alt-freq."

Then, with a flip of a switch, Hawkes switched his radio channel over and waited for the impending rumble of his latest taste in music.

Always curious about late twentieth and early twenty-first century genre of Rock-n-Roll, after the loss of his friends, his de facto family, Hawkes' tastes had somewhat skewed more towards the subgenre of Heavy Metal to more accurately reflect his mood.

The latest addition to his private collection was from a group called Metallica.

Slipping his gloved hands in around the control yoke and the throttle, Hawkes eyed the action ahead hungrily, poised, waiting for the first pounding notes and lyrics to begin reverberating through his cockpit.

"_Give me fuel; give me fire; give me that which I desire_!"

Slamming the throttles full open, Hawkes, Stone, Low and Keegan nosed their Hammerheads boldly towards the heart of another hairy furball.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

As he watched the quartet of Hammerheads race away at full throttle, the thundering notes of music blaring over the alternate channel, the _unauthorized_ alternate channel Ross _wasn't_ supposed to know about, Commodore Ross couldn't help but grin slightly.

Some of the higher-ups back on Earth would likely question his decision to allow his planes to rejoin the fray.

Buy honestly, if they _did_, who the hell cared?

They were on Earth, and he was out here.

Hawkes might be brash, even a reckless hothead at times, but he was nevertheless one hell-of-a good pilot.

He was also the kind of pilot that didn't let someone else fight his fights for him.

In a lot of respects, Hawkes was very much like McQueen…

Taking off his sweat-soaked cover, Ross wiped the perspiration from his brow back over across his short-cropped hair. Placing the cover back in place, Ross looked back over at the LIDAR screen, and let out a short, understanding snort.

"Good luck, Lieutenant," he muttered, the barest hint of a grin still on his face.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

"Sir, BDA team has its first report on the fighter engagement," began Lieutenant Cortez as he stepped quickly over to the plot table with a printout.

"What's our effectiveness?" asked Burke as she watched Kelso take hold of the printout.

"Analysis indicates the enemy fighters are well armored, but much less maneuverable," sighed Commander Kelso as he quickly scanned down the text. "However, the alien craft are putting up some stiff resistance…"

Suddenly, a piercing alarm sounded from Lieutenant Cortez's station.

Practically sprinting back to the console, Cortez dropped heavily down into the seat, his eyes scanning the console screen.

"Four of the Earth fighters have broken off and are heading towards the engagement zone, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez.

Setting the printout down, Commander Kelso returned his attention to the DRADIS overhead. His fingers again rhythmically thumping away on the plot table, Commander Sean Kelso watched as the four contacts raced in towards the frenzied action taking place between the alien ships and _Galactica_'s Vipers.

"Shall I order a section from Blue Team to intercept them?" asked Major Burke simply.

Pursing his lips a bit, Commander Kelso's eyes narrowed as he watched the fighters continue to close.

Glancing back over his shoulder, Commander Kelso saw that West was paying very close attention to the DRADIS as well.

"Not yet, Major," muttered Commander Kelso simply.

Catching the young man's attention, Kelso then motioned West closer to the plot table.

As he stepped up, Kelso pointed up at the screen overhead, at the four closing contacts, then pointed over at West, then to the wireless headset he still wore.

Nodding, West toggled the wireless transmit button.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

"West!" exclaimed Hawkes, his finger instantly snapping to his audio player, killing the rumbling music as he toggled his radio to transmit. "West, it's Hawkes!"

"_Coop_?"

"Yeah, man," smiled Hawkes, feeling as though by excitement alone he was about to eject from his cockpit. "Damn, everybody thought you were _dead_!"

"_Not yet_," sighed West. "_Look, Coop, I don't have a lot of time, I think these guys want to make sure you're not about to try and attack their fighters_."

"Attack?" scoffed Hawkes, still on the edge of elation at hearing his friend's voice. "Hell no, we're jumping back into the action against the Chigs."

"_Good, cause these guys are definitely not the bad guys_."

"Well, who are they then, 'cause they sure as hell don't look like IFOR."

There was a pause.

"_Coop, you're just going to have to trust me, because right now I don't really have much of an answer to give except to say that these guys are here to help_."

By his tone alone, Hawkes could tell there was something that West was holding back.

But as the battle he and the other three Hammerheads were racing towards began to all but dominate his forward view, Hawkes simply didn't have time to work out the details.

"Alright," snapped Hawkes, shrugging a bit. "You heard the righteous word from West; these guys are friendlies, so watch your targets and let's kill us some Chigs."

"_Hoo-rah to that_," replied Stone.

"_Semper-Fi, let's make 'em die_," added 'Gramps' Keegan emphatically.

"On my hack, break formation as planned," said Hawkes as he focused his attention on the action ahead. "Three, two, one, hack!"

And with that, the Marines jumped once more into the fight.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

As he waited for West to complete whatever conversation he was having, Commander Kelso returned his attention to the DRADIS overhead.

Already, the Earth fighters had managed to all but cover the remaining distance between their fleet and the dogfight taking place near _Galatica_.

As before, all he could do was hope that whatever West was telling the closing Earth fighters, it was enough to convince them that _Galactica_ and her Vipers were not a threat.

A gentle tap on his shoulder and Commander Kelso looked back over to West.

Pointing first at the screen, West then gave Kelso a simple thumbs-up.

"Good," grinned the Commander as he nodded to West, then returned his attention to DRADIS in time to see the four Earth fighters jump into the fray.

"Sir, with respect, are you certain about their intent?" muttered Major Burke as she too watched the Earth fighters join the fight. "How do we know those Earth fighters won't attack our own people as well as the aliens?"

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso looked across the plot table to his XO.

"Nothing's certain in combat, Major," sighed Commander Kelso evenly. "All we can do is look to one another, trust the training we've been given, throw in a healthy portion of faith, and hope we can stomach what that recipe serves up."

Returning his attention to the screens overhead, Commander Kelso let out a long, calming breath.

Although she didn't press the issue, Commander Kelso could still sense that his XO wasn't wholly convinced.

"You know as well I do, Major, that combat has a way of boiling everything down to the most pragmatic levels of thinking," continued Kelso evenly as his eyes continued to watch the battle overhead. "Prior to the first Cylon War, the Colonies were constantly fighting with one another, but with the threat of collective annihilation, they banded together to fight the Cylons. In the end, politics, religion, trade disputes, all of it went right out the airlock when faced with that one, simple truth; the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<strong>

"Spoon, this is Longrifle, pull hard right, engage at your two o'clock," snapped Major Thomas Culver as he pulled back into loose formation with his wingman. "I've got your six, rook; take the lead."

"_Copy that, Longrifle_," replied Spoon, his voice clipped with agitation.

As Culver watched the nugget pilot pull in towards the trio of alien fighters as directed, _Galactica_'s CAG couldn't help but feel a measure of frustration at the relative lack of training his pilots had received these last several months. Shaking his head slightly, Culver watched as the young pilot overcorrected from his initial intercept turn and almost overshot the formation of alien fighters.

"Watch it, Spoon, ease back on your throttles," called Culver.

"_Copy that_."

Cutting back on his main engines, the nugget finally slipped in directly behind the trio. But before he managed to get a perfect bead on one of the alien fighters, the nugget prematurely fired off a burst that ripped harmlessly past them.

Alerted to the presence of the two Vipers on their tail, the trio of alien ships suddenly broke formation, each one veering away in a separate direction.

As he watched the three alien ships separate, Culver suddenly felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Spoon immediately break into pursuit.

"No, wait!" snapped Culver as he watched Spoon hone in on one of the fighters. "Dammit, break off!"

Pulling his own nose around, Culver tried to keep up with Spoon even as he slowly rolled his Viper over, desperately looking about, trying to keep an eye on the other two as they started to come back around.

"_Longrifle, Spoon, I've got this one, sir_," replied the nugget as he chased ill chosen his target.

"No you don't," snapped Culver as he kept an eye on other alien ships, both of them vectoring back around onto their tails.

"_Sir, I've got it_!" called Spoon once more as he began letting off short bursts.

Grunting in frustration, Culver continued to roll his Viper, trying to keep his eyes on both the other alien ships as they settled back in on the Colonials' six.

"Gods dammit, nugget, you've got tunnel vision!" he barked angrily as he watched the two alien fighters lining back up. "Break hard now, _now_!"

"_Two more seconds_!" snapped Spoon as he continued to fire off short bursts.

But even as Spoon was firing, the other two alien fighters he'd haplessly ignored were in a perfect position on their six.

Yanking back hard on his stick, Culver popped the nose of his Viper up and over, his thumb pressing down on the trigger even as his cannons began to fall into place.

But it was already too late…

Undeterred by his return fire, the two alien fighters, the two Spoon hadn't anticipated coming back around, opened up, firing a torrent of bursts that began peppering the nugget's Viper.

"Eject, gods dammit, _eject_!" snapped Culver.

Too late…

"_Oh, gods_..!"

Spoon's last frantic transmission, already horribly garbled with the sounds of explosions ripping through his cockpit cut off completely as the entire Viper was engulfed in flames.

With the fading light of his lost wingman glaring through his cockpit, Culver yanked his Viper over hard, maneuvering down and away as he slammed his throttles back open, pitching away from the two alien fighters as they began to turn in on him.

"Damn!" burst Culver bitterly as he glanced down at DRADIS and saw the two alien fighters, now once again joined by the third, maneuvering in on _his_ tail. "This is Longrifle, I need some support!"

"_Anybody see CAG_?"

"_This is Bo-Jay, I think I've got him at my nine, but I can't get to him_!"

"_Frak, can anyone get to _Longrifle?"

As he listened to the cacophony of transmissions darting across the squadron freq, Culver simply shook his head, out of frustration, and out of understanding.

In terms of numbers, they were almost equal with the alien fighters, so he was by no means the only one stuck in the middle of a particularly nasty dogfight.

Like it or not, for the moment, Culver was on his own.

"Frak it!" he snapped as a burst of alien weapons fire ripped past his left wing. "This is Longrifle, all planes disregard my last and stay on your wingmen, but keep a sharp eye, I'll see if I can lead these bastards into someone's line of fire!"

Taking in deep, rapid breaths, Culver checked DRADIS and saw that all three had fallen in on his tail. Opening his thrust reversers, Culver watched as the trio of alien ships, apparently unable to compensate in time, suddenly veered off in order to avoid ramming into him.

With a deft movement, he instantly leveled out his nose and slammed his engines back to full, rolling over and in behind one of the alien ships.

But even as he did so, Culver was more than cognizant of Spoon's fate only a moment before and checking his DRADIS saw that the other two were indeed maneuvering to try and fall in on his tail.

Toggling his fire control to select one of his Javelin missiles, Culver locked onto the craft he was chasing, got a good tone, and fired the missile. Almost as soon as the missile cleared the stowage rack, Culver again popped open his thrust reversers, yanking back hard on his stick, popping the Viper's nose up and over.

As his cannons dropped back down onto his two pursuers, Culver kept his thrust reversers open, in effect, flying his Viper backwards as he fired off several quick bursts.

A bright flash behind him, and a quick check on DRADIS confirmed that the missile he'd fired had found its mark, culling the alien fighters from a trio to a duet.

With no time to relish the victory, Culver cut his thrust reversers, slamming the throttles back open to full, rocketing the Viper forward once more, cutting right in between the remaining pursuers.

"This is CAG," called Culver as he checked DRADIS to see whether the two ships were attempting to reengage. "Frontal armor is too heavy for cannons, but they don't seem to have any ECM able to shake our missiles. Their maneuverability is also crap, so try and engage from their six, cannons seems to have more effect from the rear. And don't get tunnel vision, you focus in on one, two more will jump you, so watch your own six."

As he listened to the litany of replies over the wireless freq, Culver's eyes continued to scan the surrounding space. The two alien fighters had apparently broken off, at least for the moment, but he was by no means clear of any danger.

As he'd noted, the alien ships weren't nearly as maneuverable as a Viper, but they _were_ fast.

So fast in fact that he didn't see the next three until they shot past his right wing in formation, startling the frak out of him.

"Gods damn!" he shouted as he yanked his Viper hard to the right.

They hadn't fired at him, but their close pass, barely a meter off his wing, had certainly put him on the edge of soiling his drawers.

"You frakers are everywhere," growled Culver as he pitched his nose over and prepared to engage.

Three against one; hardly seemed fair, but at least he was learning their tricks.

With a quick glance, he noted his weapons stores; three missiles, and sixty-percent remaining on his cannons.

Looking back out, Culver lined up the nose of his Viper, trying to get a good bead on one of the alien fighters that had shot past his wing.

But even as he was lining up for his shot, Culver was just as started when a hail of weapons fire; not Colonial, very distinct, very different; shot past his Viper and tore into two of the alien fighters directly ahead.

Shocked but undeterred, Culver pressed down on his own thumb trigger, firing off a burst that tore into the thinner rear armor of the third, sending it into a flaming spiral even as its two utterly shattered brethren explosively ejected flotsam off into the breathless void.

With all three alien fighters destroyed, Culver slowly looked out past his left wing, then slowly to his right and saw that two large, gray planes, nothing like the alien fighters, were presently flanking him.

Larger than a Viper, each plane had two large forward swept wings bristling with a healthy assortment of missiles, two small forward canards in front of the cockpit, and one hell-of-a nasty looking forward cannon. Pursing his lips slightly, Culver concluded that the two planes might look ugly, but they were most decidedly been built for war.

As he sat looking over at one of the pilots, Culver gently rocked his Viper, waggling his wings as he gave the pilot a smart salute; a pilot's appreciation for the assist.

Likewise waggling his wings, the other pilot pointed over at Culver and then made a thumbs-up.

Nodding his head, Culver returned the thumbs-up…

…as a torrent of weapons fire ripped down from above them, tearing through the other plane's left wing.

Instinctively, Culver pulled back on his stick, nosing his Viper up into a hard z-axis climb directly towards the weapons fire, instantly catching sight of another trio of alien fighters racing down towards them.

In his peripheral vision, Culver could see one of the large gray planes pulling in on his right, its forward cannon erupting in a hail of fire that stitched across space, viciously tearing into one of the alien fighters.

As the damaged alien ship veered out of formation, one of its three 'wing' extension completely sheared away, Culver again toggled his fire control, selected a Javelin missile, immediately heard a good tone, and fired.

The missile rocketed out from the rack underneath the Viper, leaving a thin contrail as the two remaining alien fighters peeled off from the continued attack. But as before, the missile, free of any apparent jamming, rapidly homed in on its target, explosively shattering one of the two remaining alien craft against the endless backdrop of space.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

With two of the Chig fighters destroyed, and the third all but scurrying away, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes brought the nose of his Hammerhead back around towards Keegan's injured plane.

"Gramps, this is Jack-of-Spades," muttered Hawkes as he watched the friendly tri-wing fighter slip back in beside him.

"_Gramps, here_."

"What's your status over there?" asked Hawkes as he slowly slipped up beside Keegan's visibly damaged Hammerhead.

Looking over Keegan's plane, Hawkes watched as a long stream of vapor continued to pour out from the holes ripped into the Hammerhead's left wing. Worse still, Gramps' left engine also appeared damaged, the thrust exhaust intermittent at best.

"_In a word, FUBAR_," replied Gramps wryly. "_Losing both fuel and oh-two, port-main also took a hit, looks like the main scramjet assembly has been turned into swiss cheese_."

"Jack-of-Spades to Rocky and Shock."

"_Go ahead, Jack_," replied Lieutenant James 'Rocky' Stone briskly.

"I need you two to go ahead and break off," began Hawkes as he looked over and noted the unusual tri-wing fighter with the long nose sidle up on the opposite side of him. "Rendezvous with Gramps and escort him safely back to the '_Toga_."

"_We copy_," replied Rocky. "_We should be on his wing in two-mikes._"

"Copy, two mikes."

"W_hat about you, Jack_?" interjected Lieutenant Michelle 'Shock' Low evenly. "_With no wingman, you can't stay in the mix out here_."

"I wouldn't worry about that, Shock," replied Hawkes, grinning slightly as he waved out at the pilot of the small tri-wing fighter. "I think I may have another wingman."

With that, Hawkes pointed out at the other pilot, then himself, and then waggled his wings.

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<strong>

As he watched two more Earth fighters arrive and begin escorting the damaged plane away, Major Thomas Culver finally thought he fully understood what it was the remaining pilot had been trying to convey; with his own wingman damaged and unable to continue the fight, the other pilot was more-or-less recruiting Culver to stay on his wing for the remainder of the fight.

Frankly, that suited Culver just fine.

From what he had seen thus far, it was clear these guys had some serious experience dealing with these aliens, and the brute force hardware to back up that experience.

As the pilot again pointed over at Culver, then himself, then waggled his wings, Culver nodded his head, gave a thumbs-up, and likewise waggled his wings.

Almost as soon as he had done so, Culver saw the man make a motion with his hands, both flat, making a motion as if diving over.

Nodding, Culver slipped his hands in around his stick and throttle, checked DRADIS, and saw three alien targets below them vectoring in on a pair of his own Vipers.

"Okay," sighed Culver as he glanced back over.

Holding up his hand, Culver pointed first at the pilot, then held up three fingers…

Three…

Two…

One…

Right on cue, the pilot of the Earth fighter yanked his plane over hard, diving in and below Culver towards the alien fighters dogging the two Vipers.

Following a split second later, Culver dove in onto the fighter's rear at the four o'clock.

Taking deep steadying breaths, Culver made a conscious effort to divide his mind, with one half concentrating on the actual maneuvering of his Viper, and the other half making very deliberate observations on the Earth fighter's capabilities.

Good acceleration, easily equal a Viper for top speed, but a fraction slower in the acceleration curve…

Delayed maneuverability by comparison to a Viper, but that would be expected considering how much heftier the plane was…

But damn, when that Earth plane opened up with her weapons, there was no doubt, she was armed to the teeth…

As the Earth fighter easily vectored in from the flank of the trio of alien fighters, the pilot wasted no time in opening up with its forward cannon, winging one of the alien fighters, the weapons fire shearing away one of the alien ship's wing projections.

Almost instantly, the damaged alien fighter began to spin out of control, a complete loss of attitude control that sent it careening into one of the other two alien fighters, both of them disappearing in a blinding fireball that was quickly extinguished in the cold vacuum.

In spite of the destruction of the other two birds, however, the third alien fighter kept on its attack run at the two Vipers it was chasing.

For Culver, it only took a moment to realize why…

One of the Vipers, a Mark Six, had taken some damage; its high engine was out completely. The wounded Viper's wingman was desperately, dangerously veering back and forth astern of the wounded bird, apparently attempting to throw off the hounding alien fighter's aim by deliberately engaging in maneuvers that might make their signatures momentarily appear as one on DRADIS.

But if the confusion tactic was having any effect, it wasn't apparent as the alien fighter continued to hound in, firing burst after burst at the two Vipers it had in its sights.

And so it was that as the reactionary sector of his brain was concentrating on staying on the Earth fighter's wing, the analytical section of his brain realized that the less maneuverable plane wouldn't be able to pull back in behind the remaining alien fighter in time.

But his Viper _would_ be able to make the tight turn…

Throttling up, Culver dropped the nose of his Viper, the kick of acceleration allowing him to slip in below the larger fighter while still keeping out of the way of the menacing chin turret.

Pulling hard over, Culver opened up the thrust reversers on his port engine, while simultaneously keeping full thrust on the starboard. That, coupled with the RCS thrusters threw the Viper into a hard-G turn that snapped the Viper, literally as well as metaphorically, right in behind the alien fighter.

Glancing down at the DRADIS, Culver caught sight of the tail numbers of the two Viper's being assailed and toggled the thumb switch for his wireless.

"Longrifle to Vipers Two-One-Eight, Six-Zero-Three, come right, put that bastard in my sights," he growled, his body still throbbing a bit from the heavy-G turn he'd just made.

While they didn't acknowledge verbally, the two Vipers nevertheless took his instruction and maneuvered themselves so as to coax the pursuing alien ship into Culver's line of fire, allowing him to get a good bead.

As the alien fighters suddenly lined up directly of him, the silhouette of the craft seemingly at the tip of the Viper's nose, Culver pressed down on his cannon triggers, a line of tracers erupting that slammed directly into the craft's aft section, splintering it as the rest of the craft was engulfed in flames.

"_Thanks for the assist, Longrifle_," called an audibly relieved voice over the wireless.

"Save the thanks for later," replied Culver briskly as his eyes began scanning the surrounding space for more alien fighters. "Just get that wounded Viper back to _Galactica_."

"Copy that."

With that, both of the Vipers peeled away.

As he continued to glance around, Culver once again caught sight of the Earth fighter as it once more sidled up beside him.

While it could be argued that the other pilot could have rightfully been a bit irritated by Culver's rapid peel-off, the maneuver had nonetheless managed to remove the threat from two of his own pilots, and as _Galactica_'s CAG, that was an outcome Culver would not apologize for.

But from the way the pilot was nodding his head in seeming approval as he maneuvered back alongside, indeed, actually seemed to be clapping his hands, Culver guessed that the surprise maneuver might have actually impressed his ad hoc wingman.

But before Culver could respond, his eyes caught the slightest glimmer of a lone craft against the endless backdrop of stars.

Without thought, driven only by instinct, Culver threw the Viper into an acrobatic flip, quite literally rolling his plane up and over the top of the large Earth fighter, dropping down on the far side, interposing his Viper in between the Earth plane and the single alien craft as the enemy bird began firing.

Either spooked by Culver's maneuver, or himself catching glimpse of the lone alien fighter coming in from the flank, the other pilot slammed open his throttles, rocketing out and away as Culver continued to turn into the alien attack, bringing the nose of his Viper around in a tight turn towards the alien ship.

With the distance between his Viper and the closing alien ship shrinking rapidly, Culver kept his throttles open as his fighter shot straight towards the attacker. Pressing down on his trigger, Culver fired off a thundering burst that reverberated through the Viper as he continued to race headlong towards the alien ship.

With his attention firmly focused on the enemy ahead, Culver wasn't able to check DRADIS to see where the Earth fighter had gone.

Straight ahead, the alien fighter continued to erupt with weapons fire, with one burst ripped past the left side of his Viper canopy, and another, far closer, just to his right.

With his cannons filling the void with bursts of tracers, Culver felt his heart practically leap into his throat as the rounds began to bounce harmlessly off the heavier frontal armor of the alien fighter; damn, he'd forgotten about the armor…

In one instant, his mind thought about switching to a missile…

In the next, Culver knew he didn't have time; the alien craft was just too close…

In the instant after that, the alien craft fired again as its spinning projections loomed even larger in his view…

…just as a missile streaked into view from the side, slamming into the flank of the alien fighter, splintering it in a blinding explosion…

His eyes clamped shut against the blinding light, Culver instinctively heeled his Viper hard over and away, the tell-tale sound of debris from the shattered alien bouncing against the sides of his plane.

Opening his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the spots from his vision, Culver looked over and saw the Earth fighter as it once more fell onto his wing, waggling as it did so.

"Thanks," sighed Culver, feeling very much drained.

Waggling his own wings, Culver began looking around for more alien fighters.

Glancing down at DRADIS, Culver saw that a good many of them had in fact already been taken out.

No wonder that last one had come in on its own…

Still that battle wasn't yet over.

As if to drive that point home, yet another lone alien fighter appeared on their six, firing off a torrent of weapons fire almost as soon as Culver noted its approach on DRADIS.

Taking his cue from the Earth fighter as it heeled about, Culver followed the larger plane into a wide arc turn. In spite of his Viper being able to make a tighter turn, Culver nevertheless took his ad hoc wingman's lead, holding tight to his eight o'clock.

But even though the two fighters, the Earth ship and Culver's Viper, were now coming about to engage, the alien ship continued to press its attack, firing off burst after burst at the ad hoc duo.

Nevertheless, in spite of the undeniable fact that both the Earth fighter and Culver's Viper had an edge in maneuverability over the closing alien ship, the attacker had simply swooped in too quickly. Craning his neck against the G-forces of the turn, Culver watched as the alien fighter unleashed a torrent of weapons fire that peppered the larger fighter's wing.

His mind in overdrive, Culver realized that waiting until their superior maneuverability won out wasn't good enough, he needed to end this engagement now, decisively, especially since the Earth fighter had taken what his mind readily assessed as likely being some significant damage.

Taking a deep breath, Culver braced himself, then slammed back open the Viper's thrust reversers, the jarring force of the sudden braking feeling very much like a full-body gut punch.

Nevertheless, the maneuver had its intended effect as the alien fighter suddenly rocketed by as it continued its chase after the injured plane, racing right into Culver's sights as it did so.

Breathing heavily as his Viper floated at a relative stop, Culver wasted no time toggling his fire control for a missile, and hearing a good tone, launched off a Javelin that rapidly chased down the alien fighter, hitting home, the craft disappearing in a decidedly satisfying explosion.

"Galactica_ to all Vipers, be advised; looks like remaining alien craft are breaking off_."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

As he listened to Petty Officer Rocca relay his order for Red Team to disengage, Commander Sean Kelso watched as the few surviving alien fighters did indeed break off and begin a rapid retreat back towards the alien capital ships still lingering just beyond _Galactica_'s weapons range.

"Sir, all Red Team Vipers confirm order to break contact," called Rocca.

"Very good," sighed Kelso looked over to her. "Go ahead and sound recall, I want Red Team back on deck for rearm and refuel. Blue Team is to assume forward engagement line."

"Aye, sir."

"Refuel and rearm?" muttered Burke as she stood, arms crossed, her eyes locked on the DRADIS overhead. "You really think they'll try and press their attack considering the losses they've already taken?"

"I do indeed, Major," sighed Kelso, leaning in over the plot table as he returned his attention overhead. "We punched one hell-of-a hole in their forces, but their initial withdrawal probably had as much to do with their surprise over us jumping in as it did with how quickly we were able to put rounds on target."

"And now that the surprise has worn off…" began Burke, nodding her head slightly.

"Now that its worn off they may be feeling bold considering we're still only one ship in the mix," finished Kelso, drumming his fingers gently on the plot table as he watched the Red Team Vipers begin moving back towards _Galactica_. "Even now, they're just sitting there, at least tacitly aware that they're outside our optimum weapons range. If they were intent on surrendering the fight, they'd have kept going, but instead, they're just sitting there."

"Considering how poorly their fighters fared, they could just be waiting to recover their planes before making a complete withdrawal," offered Burke.

"Perhaps," shrugged Kelso slightly, his fingers changing rhythm slightly as the continued to drum lightly on the plot table. "Then again, from their perspective, they still have an edge in numbers, and we're ostensibly tied to the Earth fleet, damaged as it is, limiting our ability to maneuver without leaving them potentially vulnerable. They may still…"

"They are, Commander," interjected Lieutenant Cortez evenly as he turned from his station and looked over at Kelso. "Change in aspect and ranging for the alien fleet; they're coming back in, sir."

"Time to intercept?"

"Based on these bearings, sir, I don't think they're moving to engage _us_," continued Cortez as he turned back to his station. "Course projection indicates they're moving back in towards the Earth fleet on a wide arc that from our current position will place them at just about our engagement limit."

"How long before they're back in weapons range?" asked Burke, her attention firmly on the screens overhead.

"Presuming their weapons have similar range limits to our own, twenty-three minutes."

"Rather leisurely maneuver, considering," muttered Burke, chewing slightly on the inside of her lip.

"Probably want to see how we'll react, gauge our response," sighed Commander Kelso as he began to mull the situation over in his mind. "Rocca, how long before Red Team is back aboard?"

"Three minutes, sir, but there's a problem…"

"What kind of problem?" asked the Commander evenly, his eyes not leaving the screen overhead.

"Major Culver, sir," began Rocca, her tone a bit sheepish. "He hasn't started back yet."

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<strong>

"Well, sir, it's kind of complicated," sighed Major Culver as he sat looking out at the long stream of vapor trailing from the sizeable holes blasted in the Earth fighter's wing.

"_Make it uncomplicated, Major_," replied the voice of Commander Kelso evenly over the wireless.

"It's the Earth plane, sir, the one that stayed on my wing," began Culver as he pulled up a bit closer to the other ship's cockpit. "It took some pretty serious damage; I'm guessing that the pilot might not be able to return to his fleet and considering he helped us out, I'm not very keen on just leaving him out here."

"_That _is_ complicated_," sighed Commander Kelso, pausing for a moment. "_But somehow I get the feeling you already have a solution in mind_."

"With your permission, sir, I'd like to lead him to safe-port aboard _Galactica_."

Even as he said as much, Culver felt himself wince slightly, uncertain as to the response he was about to receive.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

As he stood there, handset pressed to his ear, looking across at the clearly dubious expression of Major Burke as she too listened in on the transmission, Commander Sean Kelso's first thought was the simplest and most pragmatic; would the damaged Earth fighter even be able to land aboard _Galactica_?

What kind of arresting gear did the plane carry?

As he took in a deep breath, his eyes moved back up to the icons of the alien fleet as it continued its wide course back towards the Earth fleet.

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso set the handset down on the plot table and looked back over to West, motioning him over.

As West stepped up, Kelso made a very deliberate show of pointing up at the icons of Culver's Viper and the Earth fighter, then up at the headset West still had on.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

"Oh, come on, dammit," groaned Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes as he practically punched the master silence button, cutting off the latest alarm that had begun blaring through his cockpit.

With his main panel already lit up like a Christmas tree from the myriad of damage his Hammerhead had taken, Hawkes had already begun mentally going over the short list of options still open to him.

A short list that was getting shorter with each new alarm…

Fuel and oh-two would be bottoming out in a matter of minutes, even if he started back now, they'd both be dry long before he reached the _Saratoga_.

If he simply pointed his nose for home, he could coast, try and either be picked up or eject near the fleet, but he would still be vulnerable. With his LIDAR already showing the Chigs closing back in on the fleet, Coop didn't enjoy the prospect of simply bobbing about in open space with no power and no way to defend himself.

Glancing over, Coop saw that his ad hoc wingman was still flying steady beside him.

There was one other possibility, but damned if he knew how to even broach the subject…

"_This is Captain Nathan West to the Hammerhead holding formation with the friendly fighter_."

"Yeah, West, this is Hawkes."

"_Coop, what's your status_?"

"Not good," replied Hawkes wryly as he looked back over at his lit-up panel. "Chigs are coming back around for another bout and my ship's bleeding to death out here. Don't suppose you might be able to convince your new friends to let me land?"

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>**_Galactica  
><em>****Combat Information Center**

As he watched West motion first at the icon indicating the Earth fighter then over at the fleet while shaking his head, Commander Sean Kelso let out a long sigh.

Glancing back over at his XO, he saw the clear disapproval in Burke's expression.

By all rights, it was her place to object, after all, the overall security of the _Galactica_ was her general purview.

Still, as Commander Sean Kelso saw it, if they were truly going to try and forge a deeper relationship with the Earth fleet, it didn't serve their cause to simply let one of their pilots, a pilot who'd already put his life on the line by assisting the Colonials, go adrift in the depths of space.

Gently nodding his head to West, Commander Kelso reached over and picked back up his handset.

"Sir," began Burke, her tone low even as he made as though she were about to reach across the plot table and take hold of his hand. "Do you _really_ intend to allow that plane to land here?"

"Wouldn't look good to our new 'allies' if I just let him die out there, Major," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he glanced back over at West. "Don't forget, we've got a good number of their soldiers aboard already, I can't imagine much risk in allowing one more aboard."

"But what if he has some sort of contagion?" snapped Burke.

Pausing, Commander Kelso mulled the thought over for a moment.

Valid…but…

"Doubtful," he finally sighed as he motioned his head over at West. "Doc Lefler gave all of _them_ a clean bill of health when we brought them up from the moon's surface. Somehow I doubt this lone pilot will have something virulent in his system that the others don't…"

His voice trailing off, Commander Kelso began lifting the handset back to his ear once more.

"Captain Gaines," snapped Kelso as he glanced over to her.

"Sir?"

"Get down to the flight deck and meet up with Major Culver and this pilot," began Commander Kelso evenly. "And take West with you, might do some good to have a friendly face down there. As soon as Culver has that pilot aboard, take him to Doc Lefler in sickbay for an exam, just to be sure."

"Aye, sir," replied Gaines as she began motioning for West to remove the headset.

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<strong>

"Galactica_-Actual to Longrifle_."

His eyes not leaving the damaged Earth fighter, Major Thomas Culver quickly toggled the transmit button as soon as he heard Commander Kelso's voice over the wireless.

"Go ahead, Actual."

_"You are clear to lead the damaged fighter in for landing on A-deck_," began Commander Kelso evenly. "_Be advised, as soon as you are skids down, the pilot is to be escorted to Sickbay for precautionary exam_."

"Understood, Actual," sighed Culver, for his part relieved.

"_Just make it quick, Longrifle_," continued Kelso evenly. "_And don't get yourselves smeared across my deck; this battle isn't over yet_."

"We'll try and make as few dents as possible, sir," smiled Culver as he angled over at bit, closing in a little more on the Earth fighter.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<strong>

As he mentally continued to inventory his ever-shortening list of options, Hawkes looked over and saw that his ad hoc wingman in the tri-wing fighter was waggling his wings to get his attention.

As soon as he looked over at the other pilot, Hawkes watched as the man held up both his hands, holding them flat as he slowly moved one hand down in front of the other, pointing at Hawkes with the hand to the rear, then himself with the hand that was in front before repeating the motion.

Feeling as though he was getting the gist of what the other pilot was trying to convey, Hawkes nodded his head then watched as the tri-wing fighter slowly slipped around in front of the nose of the wounded Hammerhead, beginning a wide, slow turn back towards the massive ship.

Following the unknown fighter through the turn, a task made more difficult by a couple of underfiring thrusters, Hawkes fought to keep his dying plane on the tail of the tri-wing plane as the image of the fighter's massive carrier loomed back into view.

While Hawkes had a decidedly large amount of curiosity about the unknown warship that had so readily pulverized the main line of Chig battleships, he had to admit that this wasn't how he'd pictured finding his way aboard the immense vessel; damaged, bleeding fuel and oxygen into the void, uncertain that his plane would be able to even reach the ship, much less land safely.

It was then that another thought hit Hawkes; how exactly _would_ he be able to land?

If the design of the tri-wing fighters was any indication, he doubted the ship had the facilities to extract a Hammerhead cockpit module.

Still, as he fought to keep his nose steady on a heading towards the large carrier, Hawkes simply let out a long sigh as he watched the ship's own fighters continue to line up for approach on one of the two large outriding pods, resigning himself to the idea that all he could do at this point was give the thought little more than a mental shrug.

"Gotta get there first," he sighed as he continued to try and coax his crippled Hammerhead towards the massive ship.

Indeed, even as he worked to keep his plane more-or-less in one piece, Hawkes couldn't help but be awed by how truly massive the unknown warship actually was. There was a decided difference between looking at the signature and dimensional readings of a ship on LIDAR, and actually _seeing_ it, getting the sense of scale with one's own eyes.

Big…

Massive…

Gargantuan…

Hell, any number of words came to mind that to Hawkes' eyes just didn't do the ship justice.

As he continued to follow his impromptu wingman in towards one of the outrider pods, apparently the ship's landing decks, each pod alone seemed to dwarf the _Saratoga_, much less the ship as a whole.

Shaking his head slightly, Hawkes was slightly startled when yet another alarm began blaring throughout his cockpit.

Slamming his gloved hand down on the master silence once more, a quick check over his console confirmed his worst, gut-feeling; he had only barely a couple minutes of fuel left, after that he'd be drifting.

It was a bad way to try and land.

Looking back out past his cockpit at the gaping maw that was the ship's landing deck, Hawkes watched as the tri-wing fighter slowly edged over and slipped back in beside him.

"Don't want me to crash into the back of you, huh?" muttered Hawkes as he looked back out along the length of the landing strip contained within the pod. "Probably a smart move."

Reaching forward, Hawkes toggled the switch that extended his landing gear.

Looking out along the landing strip, and to his mind's eyes that's precisely what Hawkes felt he was looking at, literally a long runway contained within the large pod, Hawkes suddenly realized that his landing, whatever final form it took would be more complicated than simply piloting a bleeding bird when he saw literally dozens of the tri-wing fighters arrayed across the deck.

With tens of dozens of EVA-suited personnel rushing about on deck, the planes were being moved over onto what appeared to be elevator pads to one side of the landing strip.

"Well this ups the pucker factor a bit," muttered Hawkes as he gently glided past a couple of the planes, intent on trying to land further down the strip.

It was then that Hawkes heard the disheartening drone of his engines powering down.

"Oh, no, no, come on baby, not now," sputtered Hawkes desperately as he toggled several switches, anxiously trying to reengage his main engines.

Then, looking down at his fuel gauge, seeing the indicator now bottoming out below the zero line, Hawkes felt the proverbial sinking feeling as he felt his controls go completely dead.

Glancing over, Hawkes realized that his ad hoc wingman must have picked up on his distress for the pilot of the tri-wing ship began slowly moving back around in front of Hawkes' Hammerhead, gently come around nearly nose to nose with the powerless plane.

"Just what are you planning to do?" muttered Hawkes as he watched the tri-wing plane slowly drift closer.

With Hawkes' plane continuing to sail forward on inertia alone, and the tri-wing plane now flying backwards, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes felt his heart-rate skyrocket as he watched his impromptu wingman use the long nose of the strange plane to gently nudge the Hammerhead towards the deck.

With little more to do but hold on, Hawkes braced himself as his plane drifted down towards the deck.

With a bump, the drifting Hammerhead literally bounced off the deck as it continued to sail towards the gaping entrance at the far end.

Damned tires…

"Any other ideas?" muttered Hawkes as he kept one eye on the looming blackness at the far end and the tri-wing fighter as it pitched up slightly, rotating back around as it slipped in above Hawkes' Hammerhead.

Even as he said as much, Hawkes realized that the other pilot did indeed have another trick up his sleeve.

As Hawkes craned his neck around to see, the strange fighter slowly settled in directly above the Hammerhead, the three skids it had for landing gear extended as it slowly settled down onto the back of the powerless plane.

Landing with a dull thud, the tri-wing plane made solid contact with the Hammerhead.

"Watch the paint, buddy," muttered Hawkes.

In spite of his half-hearted protest, however, Hawkes felt nothing but relief as he watched the fighter fire its thrusters, slowing the Hammerhead's forward movement, settling it back in towards the deck.

With his ad hoc wingman using his own plane like a reverse JATO, Hawkes could sense his dead Hammerhead's remaining inertia bleed away, until finally, it came to a full stop, wheels firmly in contact with the deck.

Plucking itself from atop the stationary Hammerhead, the tri-wing fighter slowly settled in beside Hawkes, the pilot looking over at him as its skids made contact with the deck.

Letting out a long, relieved breath, Hawkes watched as a couple of the EVA-clad crew stepped up to his plane, their expressions plainly curious as to how they were going to attach their tractor to the Hammerhead in order to move it over to the elevator pad.

While the deck crew continued to work out how they were going to move Hawkes' plane, Hawkes himself looked back over to his anonymous wingman.

As his counterpart sat giving Hawkes a thumbs-up, Hawkes himself made a brief, thankful salute, letting out a long sigh as he collapsed back into his seat.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Quick thinking," muttered Commander Kelso approvingly as he watched the deck gang swarm in around Culver's Viper and the damaged Earth fighter on the flight deck surveillance feed.

"All Red Team Vipers are now aboard, sir," called Petty Officer Rocca.

"Thank you, Rocca," sighed Commander Kelso as he returned his attention to the DRADIS display. "Major Burke, make sure that Chief Copeland is cracking the whip on turning those birds around."

"Will do, Commander," replied Burke flatly as she snatched up her handset.

"Lieutenant Cortez, update on the alien fleet?"

"Still making their wide arc around us, Commander," replied Cortez instantly. "Estimate they'll be back in an attack position on the Earth fleet within fifteen minutes."

Looking across the plot table as Major Burke set her handset back in its place, Commander Kelso simply waited for the report.

"Best estimates put full refuel and reload in twenty-mikes, Commander," said Burke evenly.

"Do we have a firm count yet on how many _we_ lost?"

Letting out a long sigh, Burke gently nodded her head as she passed him a simple hand-scribbled note.

"Nine total," she began as Commander Kelso took hold of the note. "Two Mark Sixes, four Mark Fours, and three Mark Twos."

"Damn," sighed Commander Kelso, taking a deep breath as he slowly tucked the note away in his pocket. "I'll want the names of those pilots as soon possible, Major."

"Aye, sir."

Returning his attention to the screens overhead, Commander Kelso fought to push the thoughts of his nine lost pilots from his head. On the one hand, he knew full well that each of his dead pilots was another lost set of unique, irreplaceable memories of their already obliterated civilization. Even more haunting was the fact that it was _his_ decision to intervene that had led to those nine deaths.

And yet, even with precious Colonial blood spilled, he knew, preventing the human fleet's destruction was the right, no, the _only_ decision he could have made.

Shaking his head slightly, Commander Sean Kelso mentally shook himself from dwelling on the nine, most especially since the battle was not yet over.

"Is Blue Team in position?"

"Affirmative, Commander, holding position one-thousand out in standard air-defense position," replied Lieutenant Cortez.

"Any changes with the Earth fleet?"

"No, sir, still holding their original position," continued Cortez. "If I had to make a guess, I'd say some of their ships are heavily damaged and may be unable to maneuver."

"So for the moment, that still leaves us," sighed Burke as she too focused in on DRADIS.

"Any thoughts, Major?" asked Commander Kelso as he began to gently drum his fingers once more on the top of the plot table.

"Reinforcements?" offered Burke. "Colonel Runel could break off the _Enceladus_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_, open a third front on the alien fleet's flank."

"My concern would be leaving the civilian fleet with only a couple Combatstars for protection," countered Commander Kelso evenly, his fingers continuing to drum away. "We still don't know the full disposition and capabilities of the alien fleet."

"But having Runel jump in would probably be as startling to the alien fleet as our own arrival," offered Burke.

"They did seem to have been caught with their pants down, didn't they?" grinned Commander Kelso as he continued to watch the alien fleet make their wide turn towards the Earth fleet. "Captain Gaines suggested the Earth fleet might be unaware of jump technology."

Even as he said as much, Commander Kelso's mind churned up a thought.

If the Earth fleet had no knowledge of faster-than-light jumps, then it was probable that the alien fleet also lacked that knowledge.

"And maybe we can use that," continued Commander Kelso thoughtfully.

"How so, sir?" asked Burke.

"Lieutenant Cortez, come over here for a moment," snapped the Commander as he reached across the table and snatched a report printout from in front of Burke.

As Lieutenant Cortez made his way over to the plot table, and with Burke watching intently, Commander Kelso flipped the piece of paper over as he pulled a pen from his pocket and quickly scribbled out several figures.

"Okay," sighed Commander Kelso as Cortez stepped up beside him. "Here's what I want you to try next, Lieutenant."

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Six-Zero-Four<br>Port Side Hangar Deck**

Hopping up out of the cockpit of his Viper, Major Thomas Culver grabbed hold of the post-flight checklist from his waiting crew chief and quickly signed off.

"Alright people, you know the drill!" snapped Chief Copeland as she jogged briskly along the maintenance line. "Check the landing gear assemblies, refuel, reload and get these birds preflighted and readied!"

As Chief Copeland continued off along the line of returned Vipers, the deck gang spurred by her continuing tirade, Major Culver simply shook his head, grinning a bit as he quickly made his way down the short ladder.

Glancing about, he caught site of the Earth fighter as the deck gang slowly moved it off one of the lift pads and stood, somewhat perplexed, trying to figure out how or if they would be able to slip the unusual plane into one of the service bays.

The problem was obvious; the wings on the Earth fighter were a little too wide to slide in easily.

Nevertheless, the problem seemed to be solved a moment later when the pilot of the Earth plane apparently flipped a switch that caused the last third of the wings to fold upwards.

Momentarily startled by the wings suddenly folding, the deck gang nevertheless recovered and moved the plane into one of the service bays as another Viper was brought down on the lift.

"That thing looks pretty mean," muttered Captain Gaines as she stepped up beside the waiting Culver.

Glancing over, Culver saw that the Marine Captain was likewise watching the deck gang maneuver the plane into the service bay.

"They _are_ mean," sighed Culver, tilting his head slightly as he looked back over at the Earth fighter. "The way they were able to rip apart those alien fighters, I have to admit, I'm actually a bit envious."

"Sounds like you might be considering trading in your Viper," smiled Gaines.

"Wouldn't go that far," chuckled Culver, giving his Mark Two a gentle, even loving pat as he watched the cockpit of the Earth fighter open. "I suppose you're here to take the pilot to sickbay?"

"Affirm," sighed Gaines as she turned and motioned another person over from the entry hatch. "That, and to link this man back up with, well, _his_ people."

Glancing over, Culver saw that the person she'd motioned over was the apparent CO of the soldiers Gaines' team had recovered from the moon.

"Makes sense I guess," sighed Culver as he looked back over at the Earth plane, just in time to see one of the deck gang roll one of the short ladders, slightly shorter that would have been ideal, into place beside the large fighter. "Just too bad we can't talk with them yet; I owe that man some Ambrosia."

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-One-Five<br>Hangar**

As he watched the service crew back his plane into what appeared to be some sort of service bay, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes looked out and saw a long line of tri-wing fighters, other service crews busily connecting what he presumed were fuel lines and loading ordnance onto them.

Like everything else about the ship, the action around the hangar area seemed nearly epic in scale, with literally dozens of the tri-wing planes being serviced and tens of dozens of personnel rushing about every which way.

Toggling the switch that opened up his cockpit, Hawkes released the restraints over his shoulders and pulled his helmet free as a crewman in an orange coverall moved a short ladderwell up beside his cockpit.

While it wasn't quite tall enough to reach evenly with his cockpit, it nevertheless saved him the more significant drop all the way to the deck.

Hopping up and out onto the ladderwell, Hawkes nodded gratefully to the man in the orange coveralls.

"Thanks," sighed Hawkes as he extended a hand to the man.

Without a word, indeed, an almost curious expression on his face, the man in the overalls nevertheless gave Hawkes a quick handshake, smiling weakly before stepping away.

Curious at the somewhat unusual reaction, Hawkes turned back and glanced over at his damaged wing, noting somewhat grimly that he was actually lucky the entire wing section hadn't been sheared completely away by the Chigs.

Letting out a long sigh, Hawkes looked back over into his cockpit, reassuring himself one last time that all systems were indeed shut down and inactive, then looked back out along the cavernous hangar.

The air was alive with activity, the sounds of voices shouting and heavy machinery echoing off the bulkheads and high-ceiling. It was then that Hawkes realized he had absolutely no idea what it was the myriad of personnel around him were saying.

Slowly making his way down the ladder, Hawkes continued to glance around, trying quite futilely to decipher what language the people around him were speaking.

As he continued to look around, truly perplexed by the strange language the crewmembers around him were using, Hawkes caught site of three individuals making their way towards him through the proverbial chaos.

One person, a man, wore some sort of green-gold coverall, but Hawkes thought he recognized him as his ad hoc wingman. Next to him was a blond woman wearing a set of black BDU's. But what caught his attention most was the third person making his way over.

"West!" shouted Hawkes, practically jumping down from the ladder and rushing off across the deck.

At first, a couple of the deck personnel were startled by Hawkes' sudden outburst. Indeed, around the periphery of the hangar area were a couple men dressed in black combat uniforms similar to the blond woman's who immediately snapped their weapons to the ready, aiming in on Hawkes, who stopped midstride and began to slowly raise his hands.

"Whoa, guys, take it easy," he muttered, arms raised. "No reason to get excited."

As West continued to make his way through the veritable chaos, the woman and the man in the green-gold uniform called out to the men aiming in on Hawkes, apparently ordering them to lower their weapons.

Slowly, the soldiers dropped their muzzles back towards the deck.

"West, what the hell is going on?" muttered Hawkes as West stepped up to him, warily eyeing the men who'd drawn down on him. "Kind of jumpy aren't they?"

"They simply don't understand what you're saying, Coop," replied West, grinning slightly, nodding his head conciliatorily at the armed guards

"I noticed that, what the hell language are they speakin', anyway?" continued Hawkes, still very much watching the armed men as they in turn kept a wary eye on him.

"Damned if I know, Coop," sighed West as he glanced back over his shoulder at the man and woman who were accompanying him. "I've been aboard a over a week now and the best we've managed to cobble together so far are simple hand signals."

"A week?" muttered Hawkes, looking back over at West. "Dude, last I saw, hell, the last any of us knew, your Hammerhead was going down in flames months ago."

"Yeah, Operation Redline didn't work out so well, did it?" chuckled West weakly. "I bailed out before my Hammerhead hit the deck; was holed-up with the other grunts that got trapped there till these guys showed up."

"So who the hell are they?" continued Hawkes, still looking about the hangar deck. "How the hell did they build a ship this big in just a couple months?"

"Well, Coop," sighed West. "Crazy as it sounds, I don't think these guys are with IFOR."

"What?" scoffed Hawkes, looking back over at West as though his former squadron-mate had finally lost his mind. "They've got to be from Earth, I mean, where the hell else could they have come from?"

"Coop, if I had an answer, I'd give it to you," replied West, shaking his head slightly. "All I can say is, wherever the hell these guys are from, from what I've been able to see of their technology thus far, the Chigs _really_ don't want to piss them off."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

"Just keep working on getting our forward emplacements back into action," said Commodore Ross, holding the phone firmly to his ear as he continued to eye the Chig fleet on LIDAR. "Looks like the enemy is coming back in and I'm not about to count on someone else to pull our fat from the fire again."

"_We're doing the best we can, sir_," replied the voice of one of the Damage Control team leaders. "_The fire is out, but it really did a number on some of the power lines leading to the fore mounts_."

"Just get it done," replied Ross firmly as he set the phone back onto its receiver. "Lieutenant Price, what's the word from the _Powell_?"

"Main propulsion is back up, they are able to maneuver, sir," began Price as she looked back over her shoulder. "Power has also been restored to her forward four-fifty mount."

"And the rest of the fleet?"

"All commands report ready for continued action, but the _Virginia_ is still retrieving the _Nebraska_'s survivors."

"Advise _Tashkent _and _St. Laurent_ to assume cover formation around the _Virginia_ until SAR is complete," began Ross, letting out a long, tired sigh as he continued to watch the Chig fleet redeploy.

"Aye, sir," replied Price, turning back to the communications panel a moment later to relay Ross's order.

His attention still very much glued to the LIDAR, Ross was very much intrigued, even amused by the way the Chigs were quite deliberately making a wide arc around the massive unknown contact.

While he still had about a thousand questions, at least for starters, about who or what the large ship was, he simply did not have the luxury of indulging them at the moment, for while the Chigs were again on the move, the large contact itself hadn't really moved much since its initial appearance. Indeed, with the fighter engagement over, it seemed very much involved with retrieving its own fighter forces.

The fighter engagement…

Hawkes…

While Keegan, Low and Stone had managed to get their planes safely back to the _Saratoga_, their best guess was that Hawkes himself had somehow landed aboard the large unknown ship. Whether he'd done so voluntarily was yet another question that he didn't have the time or the means to answer.

As he stood there, his mind awash with questions that had no appreciable answers, the entry hatch opened. Glancing back over his shoulder, Ross watched as Keegan, Low and Stone were ushered in by a couple Marine guards.

"We don't have a lot of time so make your report short and sweet," said Ross as he stepped over to the trio.

"Is there anything in particular the Commodore wants to know?" asked Keegan evenly as he settled into a parade rest.

"Anything and everything you were able to observe will do nicely," replied Ross flatly as he crossed his arms and eyed each of the three pilots.

For a moment, the three simply looked at one another, hesitant.

"Well, sir, all their fighters were of an unfamiliar design," began Lieutenant Stone. "Smaller than a Hammerhead, triple engine tri-wing design, elongated forward nose section."

"There appears to be at least three, maybe four different variants on the same general design," continued Lieutenant Low, several beads of sweat rolling down the side of her cheek. "But all the planes, regardless of particular variant are very maneuverable."

"Fairly well armed, too," added Keegan, letting out a long sigh as he absently scratched the back of his neck. "Their guns have a bit more trouble than ours penetrating the forward armor of a Chig fighter, but if they get in behind them, which their superior maneuverability definitely lets them do, they can rip a Chig fighter apart as easily as a Hammerhead."

"What about markings?" continued Ross. "Did you see any ID insignia on the planes, anything to indicate who they belong to?"

"There _were_ marking, sir, but like the planes themselves, I've never seen anything like them, nothing even close," replied Stone flatly.

"What about their carrier, anything you can report on it?" asked Ross, motioning his head slightly over at the LIDAR.

"We only got a few long distance views of it, sir," replied Low, shaking her head slightly as she looked over at the LIDAR. "It's damned big, though."

"What about Lieutenant Hawkes?"

"We lost contact with him after we started back for the _Saratoga_, Commodore," began Keegan, shaking his head slightly. "I think he linked up with one of their fighters, but I can't be sure what happened to him after that."

Taking a deep breath, Ross looked over each of the three pilots.

"Get back down to the hangar bay and see to your planes," sighed Ross as he glanced back over at the LIDAR. "Chigs are coming around and it looks like they mean to resume their attack. Dismissed."

"Aye, sir," replied all three, snapping to attention momentarily before making their way back out the entry hatch.

Taking another deep breath, Ross continued to mull over situation. Everything about this ship, the planes, the whole situation itself kept coming back to one frustrating word; unknown.

The Chigs had been 'unknown' at the beginning of the war, and now they threatened to wipe out all human life.

He didn't like 'unknown'.

"Sir, change in the readings on the unknown contact," called Lieutenant Rosary.

Focusing his attention even closer on the LIDAR, Ross watched as the large vessel, having retrieved all of its fighters, began making a wide turn to starboard, a turn away from the advancing Chigs,

While he was quite serious that he had no intention of simply counting on the unknown ship's continued assistance against the Chigs, Ross nevertheless felt an uncomfortable stirring in his gut as he watched the contact turn away.

In his mind, it meant only one thing; the unknown ship was withdrawing.

And as that disheartening thought was settling in on his mind, two questions likewise haunted him.

What about the person aboard it that was claiming to be Nathan West?

What about Hawkes for that matter?

"Dammit," muttered Ross bitterly as he watched the last of the unknown fighters land. "Advise all commands to prepare for the Chig counterattack. Looks like we're going to have to do this ourselves after all."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"All stations report ready, Commander," said Burke evenly as she hung her handset back up. "We have completed our turn and are in alignment per your orders."

"Status of Blue Team?"

"All Blue Team Vipers are holding on deck, ready for flattop redeploy on your order, sir," called Petty Officer Rocca evenly.

"Red Team?"

"Still rearming and refueling, Commander," replied Major Burke as she looked across the plot table at him. "A few are already being loaded back into the tubes, but Chief Copeland says it will still be at least five to ten mikes before _all_ birds are ready to fly again."

"Time till the alien fleet reengages?"

"Presuming their weapons range is similar to our own, they will be back within range of the Earth fleet in six minutes, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso looked back across the plot table at Major Burke.

"Time to see if we can surprise them again, Major," grinned Commander Kelso.

Nodding slightly, Burke returned her gaze to the screens overhead.

"Start the clock, Lieutenant Cortez," snapped Commander Kelso as he too returned his attention to DRADIS.

"Aye, sir," replied Lieutenant Cortez instantly as he lifted the handset he was holding to his ear. "All hands, jump clock is running, jumping in three, two, one, jump."

* * *

><p><strong>Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes<br>Captain Nathan West  
>Sickbay<strong>

As Hawkes sat on the edge of a medical gurney, more-or-less fidgeting, continuing to take in the less-than-scenic surroundings, West looked back over his shoulder, back over at Gaines as she stood speaking with the young woman who'd just given Hawkes a brief once-over.

"How much longer they gonna to keep us here?"

"What, you late for a hot-date?" smirked West as he looked over to Hawkes.

"No," replied Hawkes flatly. "All I'm saying is that there were still a hell-of-a lot of Chigs out there, and I'd kinda like to find out what's going on around here."

"Trust me, Coop, it's not going to be that simple," sighed West as he leaned back against another gurney. "A few days aboard now and about all I've been able to figure out is what time of day they bring us chow."

"Well if you know so little about them, why do you trust'em so much?"

"We may not be able to talk to one another, Coop, but I do know one thing," began West, letting out a long sigh. "If it weren't for these people saving our asses back on that god-forsaken moon, me and a couple dozen other Marines would have been hacked to pieces by the Chigs by now."

"Situation was really that bad down there?"

"Yeah, it was," replied West flatly, nodding his head as he did so. "Just as bad, maybe even a little _worse_ than Demios."

Hawkes simply watched as the expression on West's face became a touch distant.

At least when the Five-Eight had been stranded on Demios, they'd been stranded there together. This time, West had been thrown into the mix with a bunch of strangers, fellow Marines, sure, but still strangers.

After a moment, West shook himself from his momentary lapse, smiling weakly.

"Let's not forget, Coop, they saved _your_ ass too, let you land here in wounded bird, or have you forgotten that already?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," sighed Hawkes, very much conceding the point. "I'm just not able to trust so easy."

It was an understatement on Coop's part that West couldn't help but chuckle at.

Hawkes was well-known, indeed, nearly notorious for rapidly escalating minor suspicions into outright, even scathing accusations.

Trust was most decidedly something that had to be earned from Cooper Hawkes.

"So how has the fleet been holding up?" muttered West evenly.

This time, it was Hawkes who fell silent for a moment, his expression wavering.

"Chigs have been hitting us just about every damned day," said Hawkes, his voice suddenly very tired. "Fleet's lost ten ships since you got stranded, thousands of KIA's, 'bout as many wounded."

"And the '_Toga_?"

"Boss Ross has managed to keep her together, but as many times as the Chigs have hit us, I'm surprised she hasn't cracked in half," replied Hawkes, shaking his head slightly. "DC teams are just about down to using paperclips and rubber-bands to hold her together."

At that, West chuckled, Hawkes doing likewise a moment later.

It was then that the two of them suddenly felt a wave of lightheadedness pass over them, an utterly strange sensation, as though the entire compartment around them had both expanded outwards and contracted inwards at the same moment.

"Whoa, what the hell was _that_?" muttered Hawkes, blinking his eyes rapidly. "Felt like freefall and being drunk rolled into one."

"I don't know exactly," replied West, himself looking around somewhat curiously. "I've felt it a couple times before, I think it has something to do with the ship's propulsion systems."

"So they're moving?" muttered Hawkes looking around at the bulkheads as though he'd be able to simply divine some information from that alone. "Where are they going?"

West opened his mouth, preparing to once more reply that he didn't, or wasn't in a position, to know, but instead simply shook his head.

Before West or Hawkes could say anything else, the air and the bulkheads all around the sickbay began to reverberate with a booming series of thuds.

Glancing back over at Gaines, West watched as the woman held up her hand, dipping her head slightly to placate him before curling her fingers into the shape of a gun, moving her thumb back and forth like a hammer, in doing so confirming his initial thought at hearing the sound.

"What'd she say?" muttered Hawkes.

"That's the sound of the ship's weapons firing," replied West as he looked back up around at the echoing bulkheads.

"Oh, that could be bad," moaned Hawkes, eyeing the area warily.

"What do you mean 'bad'?"

"What, you haven't seen what this beast looks like from the outside when it's shootin' at somethin'?"

West shook his head.

"Well I _have_, and believe me, it's one hell-of-a fireworks show," continued Hawkes, shaking his head slightly. "It's like the whole damned thing is covered in guns along the outside."

"I doubt they're firing on our fleet, if that's what you're worried about," countered West.

"Again with the whole trust thing," scoffed Hawkes. "You said it yourself, you hardly know _anything_ about them; what's to stop them from shooting at the _Saratoga_ along with the Chigs?"

Looking around the sickbay, West motioned with his head over towards a couple of occupied beds on the far side of the compartment.

"That's why," he said as Hawkes looked over at the wounded men, the dull rhythm of monitoring equipment permeating the air amid the cacophony of weapons fire. "Those are _our_ Marines being treated over there."

Looking first at the two wounded men, then back over at West, Hawkes took a deep breath, waiting.

"We were pinned on top of this hill," continued West. "Chigs were strafing our position, no SAM's left, no way to break out so we were pretty much screwed. All we could do was hug the deck and wait for the Chigs to send their infantry up to finish us off, when _bam_, these guys showed up, knocked the Chigs from the sky and then wiped out the ground troops."

Letting go a long sigh, West simply shook his head.

"I don't know what's going on, Coop, and I don't have any idea who these people are. Hell as crazy as it sounds, I'm really don't think they're from Earth, but from the moment they showed up, they've done nothing but help. They didn't have to; they just did."

"West, man, you're starting to scare me here," muttered Hawkes, staring somewhat dubiously over at his friend. "What do you mean you don't think they're from Earth, where the hell else could they be from, they're people right?"

"I don't know, Coop," replied West, chuckling a bit, shaking his head adamantly. "I know how its sounds, and I know it doesn't make _sense_, it's just a feeling I get from them, like they're a long way from home."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Jump complete, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez.

His eyes locked on DRADIS, Commander Sean Kelso waited pensively as the screen resolved back into an image, reflecting the change in their position.

And as the icons indicating the position of the alien fleet reappeared, Kelso grinned slightly.

"Right on the money, Commander," muttered Major Burke, glancing across the plot table at the Commander. "Enemy fleet is now in range, we are now holding position at the far left of their formation."

Without a word, Commander Sean Kelso snatched up his handset from the side of the plot table, toggling the switch for Battery Plot.

"This is Combat, commence full salvo fire to Port, all actionable batteries direct across the enemy formation, full load HE; fire at will, gentlemen."

"_Aye, sir_," replied the voice on the other end of the line, followed a moment later by the sound of _Galactica_'s Port side batteries opening up once more on the alien fleet.

As he set the handset back into place, Commander Kelso cast his eyes back to the screens overhead.

Their short FTL jump had repositioned _Galactica_ directly off the extreme left of the alien fleet's formation. With the ship now sitting parallel to their course, the Warstar was in a perfect position to rain weapons fire down across their entire axis of advance.

And she was doing so with devastating effect.

As suspected, the short jump had apparently taken the alien fleet completely by surprise, the nearest two capital ships being all but pummeled into submission by the withering barrage before the aliens even had a chance to react.

In their new position, _Galactica_ was able to bring half of her seventy-two total heavy emplacements into action, delivering fire down along the whole line of the alien formation.

As the hail of high explosive shells tore down along the enemy formation, slamming directly into the high profile sides of the enemy capital vessels, the smaller escorting enemy fighters were once again thrown into complete panic. With their carriers under truly punishing assault, indeed, being literally ripped to shreds by rounds designed for the far more robust armor of a Cylon Basestar, the small fighters were caught amid a hail of flak and shrapnel as the rounds that had punched through the hulls of the heavy ships delay-detonated amid the escorting formations.

"Three main enemy targets have been destroyed, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez as the sound of the ongoing cannonade continued to reverberate throughout CIC. "Two more have suffered heavy damage and appear to be adrift."

"They're completely helpless," muttered Major Burke, her voice laced with an almost disturbing level of gratification.

Glancing momentarily across the plot table at his XO, Commander Sean Kelso suddenly felt his gut begin to twist a bit with an unexpected sensation; doubt.

Why?

This was _his_ battle.

He had been the one who'd ordered the full might of the Warstar into action.

Intervening to prevent the destruction of the Earth fleet had been, and indeed, still was, the _right_ decision.

And yet, as he heard the tone in his Executive Officer's voice, he was nevertheless cognizant, for perhaps the very first time just how much of a rout his lone vessel was imposing upon the alien fleet.

Casting his eyes back to DRADIS, Kelso watched as the remaining ships of the alien formation, at least, the ones still undamaged enough to attempt to maneuver, once more began a desperate turn away from the mighty Colonial warship.

As for the two already too heavily damaged to do anything more than flounder amid the hail of explosive rounds, they soon succumbed to their wounds, all but evaporating explosively into flotsam.

"Two more enemy targets destroyed, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez.

"Should we relaunch Blue Team, sir?" asked Major Burke evenly as she reached down for her handset.

Taking a clipped breath, Commander Kelso kept his attention firmly on the screens overhead.

"Mr. Cortez, what's the status of the enemy fleet's fighter cover?"

"No indications of counterattack, Commander," replied Cortez instantly. "Indications of squadron panic; if anything I'd have to say they've completely broken ranks with their capital ships and are desperate to get outside of our firing solution."

"Hold Blue Team on deck, Major."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, slowly withdrawing her hand from the handset as she looked across at him, the confusion evident in her features.

"Mr. Cortez, what's the status of the Earth fleet?"

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>**_Saratoga  
><em>****Bridge**

"What the _hell_ is going on," seethed Commodore Glen van Ross, his eyes utterly locked on the LIDAR screen.

Only moments before, Commodore Ross had been bracing himself for the daunting, indeed, seemingly impossible task of once more taking on the remaining Chig armada with his battered fleet.

The unknown warship had recovered all of its fighters and had been turning away, as if preparing to withdraw from field.

And now?

As baffling as it was for him to even begin to decipher, the massive vessel had instantly moved from one position to another…

Several hundred kilometers distance, covered in the blink of an eye…literally.

And now as he stood there, his mind utterly mystified, Commodore Ross watched as the unknown warship once more began wading through the Chig formation, firing a true hailstorm at the enemy with devastating effect.

"Get me a report, Lieutenant Rosary!" snapped Ross.

"Unknown contact has redeployed on enemy's left flank, Commodore," replied Rosary, the young man's voice laced with no small amount of surprise. "Initial BDA reports three enemy capital vessels are already down, two more disabled and nearing structural collapse."

"Already?" burst Ross.

"Yes, sir," replied Rosary, looking back over at the Commodore.

Taking a few pensive steps, Ross was becoming uncertain about which mystery was supposed to more fully occupy his mind, that they knew next to nothing about who, or what, was commanding the unknown craft, or that the ship was proving so adept at felling Chig warships, ships that had so terribly vexed Earth forces for nearly two years, exacting heavy tolls at most every encounter.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Lieutenant Price?"

"Sir, the rest of the fleet is requesting instructions."

Turning back to the young woman, Ross looked first at her, then over at the LIDAR.

Even with the utterly devastating fire from the unknown vessel ripping across the length of their formation, a few of the Chig warships were once again attempting to turn away.

Perhaps they too had been expecting the unknown warship to withdraw, not wade back into the fray.

Ross certainly hadn't been expecting the unknown warship to reengage.

But now that the proverbial die was cast, Ross felt himself stir.

Two years of loss, suffering and frustration…

Two years of brutal gains, costly retreats…

What he felt was beyond frustration, no, it was a yearning for true old school payback…

"Lieutenant Price, relay orders to fleet as follows," began Ross, marshalling himself up mentally as he gave his cover s curt tug. "_Virginia_ and _St. Laurent_ will continue SAR of _Nebraska_'s survivors. _Powell_, _Tashkent_, _Luyang_, _Antietam_ and _Craven_ are to punch out on a wide hook onto the Chig's right flank; cut off their escape."

"Aye, sir," replied Price as she turned back to the communications station.

"_York_ and _Liverpool_ will form up to our flanks and follow us straight up the center," continued Ross as he leaned back in over the railing.

"Aye, sir," replied Price, nodding her head a bit.

"I want all ships ready to move as of _yesterday_, Lieutenant," finished Ross firmly as he refocused his attention on the LIDAR display. "All units are to be ready with everything they've got and give no quarter to the enemy."

Taking one last, deep breath, Ross watched as the remaining ships of his fleet, battered, bruised but still spoiling for a fight sallied forth for one more tangle with the enemy.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Earth fleet is redeploying, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez as another alien warship disappeared from DRADIS.

Shifting his focus from the alien fleet, Commander Sean Kelso watched as the Earth ships divided themselves into three smaller groups.

"Three ships are holding back, but the rest are closing in on the alien fleet, Commander,"

"Looks like one group is moving to cut off the alien fleet's escape," noted Commander Kelso as he watched the Earth ships move in. "The other is going to hit the center of their lines."

"Two prong pincer redeployment," muttered Major Burke, nodding her head slightly in approval. "We may not be able to talk to them, but at least they understand basic combat tactics."

Reaching down, Kelso snatched up his handset and toggled the switch for Fire Control.

"_Battery plot_."

"This is Combat, just want to make sure you gentlemen see those friendlies coming in," said Commander Kelso as he looked up at the Earth ships on DRADIS.

"_Affirmative, Commander. So far they're outside our firing solution, but we'll be shifting fire once they enter within five-hundred of prime targets._"

"Very good," replied Commander Kelso simply as he hung the handset back in its place.

"Might not be much of an alien fleet left once those Earth ships close range," muttered Major Burke evenly as Kelso returned his attention to DRADIS in time to see two more alien ships vanish.

Again picking up on the almost relishing tone in Major Burke's voice, Commander Sean Kelso once again felt a curious hint of uncertainty.

"Do you think we should break off, Major?" asked Kelso flatly, looking across the plot table as he spoke to gauge her reaction.

"Break off, sir?" she sputtered, clear surprise evident in her features. "We've achieved overwhelming fire superiority, sir, why would you be thinking of breaking off?"

"The enemy is attempting to withdraw," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he motioned up at the remnants of the alien fleet, now attempting to avoid not only _Galactica_ but the closing Earth ships as well. "Our intent in becoming involved in this engagement was to drive the alien fleet off; it could be argued that we've accomplished that."

"Somehow I doubt the aliens would be as accommodating were the situation reversed, sir," countered Burke flatly. "The Cylons certainly didn't show any mercy when they wiped out the Colonies."

"But that's my point, Major," sighed Commander Kelso, slowly returning his attention overhead as he slowly rested his hand over the handset. "These aliens, they're _not_ Cylons, and we shouldn't necessarily treat them as such, not when we still know so little about why this war is even being fought."

"You're not seriously suggesting we break off now, are you, sir?"

Looking back across at Burke, Commander Kelso saw that her face was contorted in skepticism. Lightly drumming his fingers on the handset, the Commander finally gripped his hand around the receiver.

"Sir, I'm not sure I understand your reasons for considering this," interjected Burke flatly.

Glancing around CIC, the Commander noted that more than a few faces around the area were watching the exchange.

True, Burke might not understand.

Hell, the crewmembers around CIC might not understand.

But with _Galactica_ having already all but sounded the death knell of the alien fleet, Commander Sean Kelso's doubts continued to tug at his thoughts, as if pulling him back from edge of what he felt was some sort of psychological or ethical precipice.

Glancing back up at DRADIS, Commander Kelso saw that the two inbound sections of the Earth fleet had finally closed the gap and were themselves now engaging the remnants of the alien armada.

With the Earth fleet once again in action, fighting at least on even terms now, in his mind, the issue was decided; _Galactica_ had played her part.

Commander Sean Kelso felt they'd accomplished what they had come to do, the Earth fleet had survived. But even more to the point, he wasn't yet prepared to cross over that ethical line and allow the overwhelming firepower of his ship to be used to perpetrate an out-and-out slaughter.

"This is a ship of war, Major, about that I have no qualms," began Kelso evenly as he looked across the table at Burke. "But, I'm not about to have this ship and the crews accomplishments and sacrifices to be sullied by having us be party to an outright massacre. Even in war, there has to be limits."

Picking the handset up, he toggled the switch for the ship's One-MC.

"This is Combat; cease fire, I say again _cease_ fire," he said evenly, looking across at his visibly agitated XO. "All decks to maintain Condition One."

Hanging the handset back up, Commander Sean Kelso stood there, eyes locked with Major Tyra Burke as the sound of _Galactica_'s guns falling silent left CIC in a comparatively eerie calm.

Shaking her head slightly, Burke returned her eyes to the DRADIS screen overhead.

"I guess it doesn't matter, sir," she muttered somewhat dismissively. "The Earth fleet seems to be finishing off the alien fleet quite effectively on its own."

"No doubt _Galactica_ served well in softening them up, Major," replied Kelso flatly as he continued to look at her across the plot table. "But just because _they_ are choosing to wipe out the alien fleet doesn't mean it's what _we_ should be doing as well."

After a few tense, quiet moments, Commander Kelso looked back up at the overhead displays, watching as the Earth fleet did indeed press their attack against the remaining alien warships.

As the two of them stood there, silent, the center of attention in the middle of CIC, the Earth fleet continued their emboldened and relentless advance against the remaining alien fleet.

Without a word, without so much as a glance at one another, Commander Sean Kelso and Major Tyra Burke listened as Lieutenant Cortez called off the destruction of the remaining alien warships at the hands of the Earth fleet.

At last, after a veritable lifetime of silent tension, the last alien capital vessel succumbed, it's passing announced by a simple flash-flare on DRADIS and an equally unremarkable report from Lieutenant Cortez.

"What about the remaining alien fighters, Lieutenant?" asked Commander Kelso evenly, his eyes not leaving DRADIS. "Any indication the Earth fleet is launching their fighters in pursuit?"

"Negative, sir, looks like they're coming back around, preparing to reconsolidate their forces," replied Cortez, his voice even, yet still laced with a restrained sense of excitement.

And why shouldn't he feel that way?

Militarily, their intervention had most decidedly been a victory in achieving the aims they'd set out to accomplish; the Earth fleet had survived, the alien blockade broken.

And yet as both Commander Kelso and Major Burke once again looked at each other across the plot table, it seemed like much less of a triumph.

Eyes still locked with his silent XO, Kelso snatched up his handset once more.

"All hands, this is the CIC, secure from Condition One, maintain Condition Two; all sections report damage and casualties to Combat."

As he set the handset back in its place, Commander Kelso maintained his gaze with Burke.

"I wonder if those alien fighters have the range to reach any of their own forces," began Major Burke evenly, her gaze never wavering from his. "Could prove problematic down the road if they're able to report to their higher-ups about our existence."

"I should think reporting what this ship did to their fleet would give their higher-ups a moment of pause, Major," replied Commander Kelso flatly. "Of course it's just as likely they're too far away from friendly forces to be a threat; the Earth fleet didn't pursue either."

"Considering the pounding they took, it's also possible the Earth fleet doesn't have the planes left to be able to pursue, Commander," countered Burke. "_Galactica_ might have been the only one in a position to effect a complete elimination of the threat."

"The threat _has_ been eliminated, Major Burke," began Commander Kelso evenly. "The Earth fleet has survived."

Taking a deep breath, Kelso leaned in a bit over the plot table.

"Now, I've made my decision, Major, and I shouldn't have to explain my reasons for making it," said Commander Kelso, making only a half-hearted attempt to keep his voice low. "You can either abide by it, or you can resign."

While it was Major Burke's questioning of his orders that had created the palpable tension between them, it was clear from the expression on her face that the Commander's statement had hit her like a physical blow. Had she so truly misjudged him that she didn't expect her subtle insubordination to go unchallenged?

From the way she momentarily glanced back over at the Marine posted by the CIC entry, it was clear that the thought she might be thrown into the brig was flashing through her mind.

"Aye, sir," she finally choked out.

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso stood back up fully at the plot table, returning his attention to the screens overhead, watching as the Earth fleet continued its consolidation.

"We're still feeling our way into this situation, Major," he finally said. "Our first priority, our _only_ priority is the safety of our fleet, of our people."

At last, his features softening ever so slightly, he looked back across at Major Burke.

"We've already suffered enough loss, Major, as a race, as a people," began Commander Kelso evenly as he held her gaze. "For my part, I refuse to believe we survived the horror the Cylons unleashed upon the Colonies just so we could sacrifice our ethics and descend into barbarism. If we simply surrender ourselves to being as merciless as the Cylons, what was the point of our surviving at all if the essence of our humanity still dies?"


	5. One Small Step

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Corridor**

"Just how big is this ship, anyways?" muttered Hawkes as he looked around, more or less trying to take in everything there was to see.

"Big," replied West simply.

With Hawkes' physical complete, and the battle as well considering the absence the sound of the ship's weapons firing, Gaines was now leading the two Marines back through the labyrinthine corridors.

While at first just as confused by the seemingly convoluted layout, after a few moments, West thought he was beginning to distinguish some of the markers on the bulkhead, till at last, Gaines led him and Hawkes towards the same imposing door West recognized as leading into the ship's bridge.

Clearing his throat to get Gaines' attention, West motioned for her to wait one moment as he turned to Hawkes.

"Coop, give me your attention."

"Yeah, what?" he muttered, his eyes still all but wandering around the area, his gaze giving an undue level of attention to two crewmembers who were likewise starring back at him as they passed by.

"No, Coop, really, _look_ at me."

As Hawkes finally looked West in the eye, West reached over and gently took hold of his friend's shoulders.

"Okay, listen to me very carefully," began West as he stood looking Hawkes in the eye. "This is real important. Unless I miss my guess, she's about to take us onto their bridge."

"Really?" muttered Hawkes, all but craning his head around, looking off past West.

"Coop!" snapped West. "I need you to listen, I know this has got your curiosity in overdrive, but I need you to try and reign yourself in a bit."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," sighed West, glancing back over his shoulder at Gaines, and more importantly at the heavily armed guard beside the hatch they were heading to. "When we get in there, just try not to act so much like 'you'."

"Who the hell am I supposed to act like?"

Taking a deep breath, West gave Hawkes' shoulder a gentle slap.

"I guess, try to be like McQueen, act more like he would," said West finally.

"Uh, okay," muttered Hawkes, his expression clearly distracted.

Whether Hawkes truly understood what West was trying to say was unclear, all West could do was hope it didn't take the muzzle of a weapon pointed at the InVitros face by one of these armed guards to get the point across.

While Hawkes' own sidearm had been confiscated and locked up with the other Marines' weapons, it only served to somewhat alleviate West's trepidations. Even under the stern eyes of Lieutenant Colonel McQueen and Commodore Ross, Hawkes had still managed to allow his mouth and attitude to get him in no small measure of trouble from time to time.

Here, amongst these people, with whom they could not yet communicate effectively? How did one explain 'hyperactive hothead' in rudimentary sign-language?

Letting out a clipped sigh, West turned back to the waiting Gaines and motioned for her to continue.

As the three of them stepped back up to the hatch leading into the bridge, the same guard who'd helped subdue West earlier eyed both West and Hawkes suspiciously but nevertheless opened the entryway.

While West and Hawkes paused just inside the entryway, Gaines herself stepped back over to the large table where Kelso stood.

"So who are all these people?" muttered Hawkes as he looked around the large bridge.

"Coop, the only thing you need to know is who _that_ guy is," replied West, motioning his head over at the man Gaines was speaking to. "That it the ship's CO, so, please mind your manners."

"The way you keep talking, you'd think I was gonna deck the guy or something," muttered Hawkes somewhat sheepishly as he continued to glance around at the impressive bridge.

Glancing somewhat incredulously over at Hawkes, West nevertheless kept his tongue as he simply waited.

Finally, Gaines and the CO began making their way over to the duo.

As he noted their approach, Hawkes straightened up a bit, more or less taking on a demeanor that suggested he was sizing Kelso up.

If he noted the attention, however, Kelso didn't seem to give it much thought as he stopped in front of them and extended a hand to Hawkes.

Hesitating for a moment, Hawkes simply stared at Kelso's hand.

"Coop," prodded West, giving Hawkes a gentle nudge.

"Cooper Hawkes," he muttered, taking hold of the man's hand even as his attention returned to taking in the bridge around them.

Shaking his head slightly, West wondered, not for the first time, whether anyone had ever done a real study on the prevalence of attention deficit in InVitros.

But for his part, Kelso seemed to take Hawkes' distraction in stride as he motioned both Hawkes and West forward towards the large illuminated table in the middle of the bridge.

As the two Marines stepped closer to the table, Kelso traded a few words with Gaines then turned to another crewmember.

As he spoke to the other crewman, a lovely young woman with striking eyes, Kelso reached down and picked up a phone receiver, holding it out towards West.

Taking hold of the receiver, West slowly lifted it up to his ear as the sound of radio static ebbed away.

With the slightest nod of his head, Kelso motioned for West to press down on the receiver's button.

"This is Captain Nathan West, United States Marine Corps," he said tentatively.

For a few moments, he simply stood there, receiver to his ear, listening to the slight din of static before pressing down on the button once more.

"I say again, this is Captain Nathan West of the Fifty-Eighth Squadron."

As he prepared to press down on the button a third time, the background static gave way to a decidedly familiar voice.

"_This is the United States Navy Space Carrier _Saratoga_, we are receiving you, go ahead with your transmission_."

Very precise language, very even tone, very much the voice of Commodore Glen van Ross.

"_Saratoga_, this is King of Hearts; you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice, sir," smiled West as he looked over at a still-gawking Hawkes.

"_Belay the happiness till the war is over, Mister_," replied Ross curtly. "_I have a few questions I need answered, and I need them answered_ right now."

"I imagine you do, sir," smiled West as he glanced over at Kelso.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Zero-Seven-Five<strong>

"No, Major, no escort is needed, stay on the CAP and maintain cover around _Galactica_," said Commander Sean Kelso evenly he glanced out past the Raptors' canopy at the two sleek Vipers flying alongside.

"_Understood, sir_," sighed the audibly concerned voice of Major Culver. "_Longrifle, out_."

A moment later, the two Vipers pulled away, resuming their defensive patrol around _Galactica_.

"How long before we reach the Earth ships, Lieutenant?" muttered Kelso as he absently readjusted the headset over his ear.

"Approximately seven minutes, sir," replied the pilot, Lieutenant Kimberly Cetina as she slowly turned the Raptor in a wide turn towards the not-so-distant Earth ships.

"Thanks for letting me ride front seat this time," smiled Kelso as he glanced first at Cetina, then back at her ECO, Ensign Hanna Petrovich.

"Anything's better than having you pacing in the aisle again, sir," replied Cetina, tilting her head slightly as Captain Gaines quite intentionally chose that moment to pop her head into view between the seats. "Now, if only _everyone_ aboard was as accommodating."

Chuckling slightly, Kelso glanced over to Gaines.

For his part, Commander Kelso was more-or-less enjoying the respite from CIC, from combat, from the stresses of command. Aboard _Galactica_, indeed, aboard most any ship in the fleet, he was 'the Commander'. But aboard the Raptor, at least for the moment, he was merely a passenger on a bus. Even the trip itself was little more than a Condition Four transit; only the pilots were wearing flight suits, and even then, were not wearing helmets.

But as he looked over to the CO of _Galactica_'s Marine detachment, he could tell from the expression on her face that Gaines was far less relaxed.

"Problem, Captain?" he asked nonchalantly.

Without a word, Gaines let out a clipped sigh as she motioned with her head back towards the rear compartment of the Raptor, back towards West and the other human pilot, the one apparently named Hawkes.

While West seemed mostly content to merely ride out the trip to the Earth ship, Hawkes was all but hovering over Ensign Petrovich's shoulder, watching every movement, every flip of the switch, glancing inquisitively at every readout.

"I swear, I'm gonna have to handcuff him," muttered Gaines as she watched Petrovich literally slap at Hawkes' intrusively wandering hand as he reached towards the console. "Cause if I don't, Ensign Petrovich is gonna castrate him."

"Not Petrovich's style," muttered Cetina in an utterly deadpan tone as she continued to fly the Raptor. "She'll probably jut bleed out the oh-two till you all simply pass out."

"Don't temp me," grunted Petrovich as she again slapped at Hawkes' hand, this time pointing a very menacing finger at his face. "No, _no_, do you understand me, _nooo_!"

His expression very much like that of a scolded child, Hawkes leaned back slightly, looking at the finger still pointed directly at his nose. Finally, West muttered something at Hawkes, apparently bidding his compatriot to sit back down.

"It might have been better if we'd simply let them ride back over with the others," sighed Gaines as she leaned over slightly against the side of the Commander's seat, her head resting against his shoulder ever so slightly. "At least if they'd gone back over aboard the ship the Earth fleet sent over, _we_ wouldn't have had to deal with him."

"He's just curious," replied Kelso evenly as he glanced over at the still-very much hyper-vigilant Hawkes.

"He's getting on my fraking nerves is what he's doing," replied Gaines flatly.

"I was under the impression you and your Marines had managed to form somewhat of a rapport with our guests," grinned Kelso as he glanced down at Gaines, her head still resting gently against his shoulder.

"It's not them I have a problem with," replied Gaines evenly. "Just him, Hawkes, he's just _too_ jumpy."

Grinning slightly, Commander Kelso glanced back over at DRADIS and watched as the Earth ship that had come over to _Galactica_ to retrieve the other surviving soldiers recovered from the moon slowly began pulling up alongside the Raptor. Much larger than a Raptor, the Earth transport had not only been able to take aboard the entire complement of survivors but had also brought over medical team to stabilize the two wounded soldiers who'd been under Major Lefler's care in _Galactica_'s infirmary.

Upon learning from West that they'd be returning to the Earth fleet, the human soldiers, their own uniforms fresh from _Galactica_'s laundry, had scooped up their gear and weapons and boarded the Earth transport with all the zeal of men preparing to take a month's leave.

While he'd heard a few mumbled comments from some of his crew about how the human soldiers had seemed less than grateful as they'd boarded the transport back to their fleet, Commander Sean Kelso had been more reserved in his judgment.

From his point of view, it wasn't that the Earth soldiers had been ungrateful for the care and refuge they'd been given aboard _Galactica_, he'd sensed that much from West alone, it was simply the very-understandable eagerness on their part to get back to the familiar, back to what was known to them. At the very least, back to where they'd be able to have discussions that didn't involve an over-dependence on hand signals.

Hell, even arranging for the Earth transport to come over to _Galactica_ in the first place had been a challenge because of the limited level of understanding that still pervaded communication.

West talking over the wireless to the Earth fleet…

West trying in vain to convey the request to the Colonials…

West literally pointing at DRADIS, making strange sounds while moving his hands before finally being reduced to drawing pictures on a piece of paper.

In retrospect, it had almost been comical.

But to Kelso, he knew it had also been the next tentative yet necessary step along a very serious journey.

Hell, even amongst his command staff aboard _Galactica_ there had been a measure of clipped debate on just what constituted the most serious aspect of the proverbial 'what's next' question.

Should the rest of the fleet be contacted to rejoin _Galactica_ at the current location?

Should they exchange envoys with the Earth fleet, or perhaps more accurately, 'friendly' hostages; literally expressed in those terms; and refrain from transferring all of the human soldiers back to the Earth fleet until there was more effective communication?

Wading into that murky pool of 'what ifs' and 'maybes' Commander Sean Kelso had found himself treading dangerously close to playing referee amongst his own immediate subordinates, something he'd come to realize was decidedly counterproductive at this juncture.

No, in that instance his father had been most decidedly correct; in a situation like this it was his command, and they'd play the situation by his rules.

All the human soldiers would be returned immediately; no argument.

He would also personally meet with the commander of the Earth fleet; no argument.

And much to the consternation of both Major Burke and Captain Gaines, no, he would _not_ be taking over a heavily armed personal escort when he did so.

"So what do you think we'll find over there?" asked Gaines evenly, herself glancing over at the DRADIS display showing the Earth flotilla.

"The next step," sighed Kelso. "Let's just hope we don't stumble."

"You don't seriously think they could turn hostile, do you?" asked Gaines. "I mean, after seeing _Galactica_ in action, they must realize it would be tantamount to suicide to attack us."

"Fear of the unknown can make people do some pretty stupid things," replied Kelso, grinning slightly.

"You think they'll be willing to help us?"

"Depends, need to be able to _talk_ to them first," said Kelso, scratching gently at an itch behind his ear. "We can't exactly ask 'can we settle on your planet' by hand signals alone."

Nodding slightly, Gaines saw Kelso's gaze suddenly become more distant, curious. Following his gaze, she too looked back out beyond the canopy as the ships in the Earth fleet came more fully into view.

"Sir, are you seeing this?" muttered Lieutenant Cetina evenly as she cautiously guided the Raptor in towards the Earth fleet.

Nodding his head in response, Commander Sean Kelso was nevertheless left pretty much speechless as his eyes took in not only the outlines of the Earth ships, but the readily apparent damage wrought across their hulls.

"My gods, look at that," muttered Gaines as she caught sight of a section of one ship where a large chunk had quite obviously been blasted away by weapons fire.

As the Raptor glided by each of the ships in the Earth fleet, Commander Sean Kelso's mind was rapidly taking in as much as it could, the part of him that was an engineer absorbing every line, every detail. While it could be readily and accurately argued that he had no intimate familiarity with the designs of the Earth ships, Kelso felt he was nevertheless able to get a decent sense of just how badly the fleet had been faring prior to _Galactica_'s intervention.

"Gods dammit it," muttered Lieutenant Cetina, shaking her head slightly as she noted the massive, gaping hole in the forward section of yet another Earth ship, several sections of exposed corridor visible inside the wound.

Every ship they passed had suffered damage, the only variable was in severity. Moreover, it seemed to Kelso that he could see evidence of previous patching, the tell-tale signs of battlefield repairs made in haste; oddly shaped or angled plating, rough welding marks framed by weapons scaring. Indeed, as he continued to look around, the Commander caught site of a damage control team in EVA suits rapidly attempting to lay a patch over a particularly jagged hull rupture on one ship.

How many people had died when that section of the hull had been breached?

Shaking the thought from his head, Kelso watched as West suddenly popped his head up beside Gaines, the young man likewise looking somberly out at the extensive damage.

No, his expression carried far more sorrow.

For Kelso and the Colonials seeing the damage wrought upon the Earth fleet still held a sense of the abstract, a touch of distance because of anonymity, for while the damage was quite obvious and terrible it had still been inflicted on ships that were not their own.

But to West, these ships were anything but an abstract. To West, the people manning these vessels were his fellow crewmates, men and women alongside whom he'd doubtless served, fought and suffered. From the look in his eyes, it wasn't hard to note just how much the sight was affecting him.

Shaking his head slightly, West finally looked over at Kelso, his eyes both sorrowful at the damage he was seeing, and subtly thankful to Commander Kelso for having intervened and prevented still further loss.

As the Raptor continued along past the first few ships in the formation, Lieutenant Cetina gently throttled back the ships engines, allowing the Earth transport to take lead as two of the Earth fighters sidled up beside the Colonial craft.

While Cetina and Gaines visibly tensed at the sight of the two Earth fighters falling in on either side of the Raptor, for his part, Kelso had pretty much expected as much, after all, would he have let an unknown ship approach _Galactica_ unescorted?

A quick glance over at West, Kelso absently pointed out at the damaged ships around them, then over at West himself.

In response, West pointed directly at one of the larger ships in the Earth fleet, the one towards which the Earth transport was now clearly sailing, and also the one towards which the escorting Earth fighters were more-or-less leading them.

"Guess that's the command ship," sighed Commander Kelso evenly as he reached up, casually adjusting the buttons on his uniform tunic before lightly brushing his hand along the front, dislodging some stray lint. "Guess it's time to put my game face back on."

"Maybe now is a bad time to ask, sir, but how exactly am I supposed to land aboard the Earth ship?" muttered Cetina as she looked somewhat nervously out at one of the Earth fighters. "I'm not seeing a flight deck."

As if picking up on the pilot's hesitation, West pointed over at the Earth command ship, then at what appeared to be a large landing pad on the ship's Starboard side just as a set of what were presumably landing lights burst to life creating a veritable bullseye.

"X marks the spot, Lieutenant," sighed Commander Kelso.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Hangar Bay Five**

Arms crossed, Commodore Glen van Ross watched as the Marine detail lined up along the corridor just outside the hangar bay entry.

While West, or at least the person claiming to be Nathan West, had been adamant that these 'visitors' posed no threat, after two years of unrelenting war, Ross was hard pressed to muster the mindset to take the situation at face value.

"Report from Bay Eight, Commodore," called Chief Petty Officer Martin as she stepped up with a clipboard. "So far, we've been able to verify ident on the thirty-three survivors from Fox Two-Twenty-Three picked up by the ISSCV."

Taking the clipboard from Chief Martin, Ross quickly skimmed over the short roster.

"I want all those men in the infirmary and under quarantine, Chief," said Commodore Ross evenly as he handed the clipboard back to Martin. "Advise Doctor Kanellos that I want DNA screenings, psych tests, anything and everything he can think of to try and verify that those men are who they say they are."

"Shall I have the Master-at-Arms post guards as well, sir?"

"Affirmative," replied Ross as he returned his attention to small porthole in the hangar hatch, the small ship that was being lowered into the bay on the elevator pad coming into view just beyond. "Take no chances; hold all of them there, if they resist or try to break quarantine, force _is_ authorized to ensure compliance."

"Understood, Commodore," said Chief Martin, pausing only a moment to glance through the small porthole at the ship herself before turning and heading back off along the corridor.

As the whirring of the elevator's machinery ceased, the pad came to rest with one last jolt. When the indicator next to the airlock indicated that atmosphere had been returned to the hangar, Ross nodded at one of the Marines flanking the entry. With a deft movement, the man opened the hatch, a slight hiss of air fully equalizing between the two spaces echoing a bit as the rest of the poised Marines practically exploded in through the entryway and fanned out along the periphery of the hangar bay.

As the Marine security detail fell into place around the hangar, Commodore Ross steadfastly kept his attention on the small, strange ship resting in the center of the compartment.

Although the craft was situated with its Port side towards him, Commodore Ross, and a good number of the surrounding Marines were nevertheless able to make out several figures moving about inside what was presumably the craft's cockpit.

For his part, as Commodore Ross stepped into the hangar bay he had to admit that what struck him most about the beings he saw inside was just how _un_remarkable they seemed.

Prior to authorizing the craft to come over, Commodore Ross had conducted a lengthy, if in the end rather fruitless radio conversation with Hawkes and West regarding the unknown warship and its masters. But for all the 'who's', 'what's' and 'where's' he'd thrown out at his two erstwhile officers, in the end, all the information he had boiled down to them being human, origin unknown, in command of a vessel more than capable of turning the _Saratoga_ and her battered fleet into debris.

By all rights, for the safety and security of his fleet, Ross could have denied the envoy and simply waited for the next forecasted opening of the Banū Mūsā wormhole and then have left it to the eggheads back on Earth to puzzle out the mystery of the unknown warship.

But since the wormhole itself would be closed to transit for another fifty-one hours, Ross had instead decided to go ahead and try and establish contact. He certainly couldn't deny that he was curious, the idea that one lone vessel wielded enough firepower to utterly crush an entire Chig armada was indeed something that left him little short of awed.

But in that moment, seeing that occupants of the craft with his own eyes, Ross likewise couldn't rectify within his own mind the paradox of such overwhelming force being under the control of individuals who seemed none-too-dissimilar from the crewmembers he saw most everyday aboard the _Saratoga_; mortal men and women who could bleed, and could die.

So it was that Commodore Glen van Ross now found himself waiting for the strange craft on the elevator pad to unload the envoy from the unknown warship, his mind utterly mystified by the possibility of the seemingly impossible; humans, flesh and blood Homo sapiens who, as West quite clearly suggested, did _not_ come from Earth.

The very concept seemed to fly in the face of any rational explanation, indeed, it almost seemed more alien to him than the existence of the Chigs themselves.

However, with so little in the way of hard facts, and a fleet on the verge of collapse, Commodore Ross kept reminding himself that he did not have the luxury of relaxing his guard simply because the faces behind the canopy glass seemed to be more like his own than a Chig's.

As he stood waiting, watching as the craft's occupants continued to mill about inside, Commodore Ross simply crossed his arms as he eyed a couple deckhands making their way somewhat apprehensively closer to the craft, a myriad of detection instruments in hand. As the deckhands began scrambled about the craft's exterior, they passed every sort of sensing device along the outside of the ship, wary for any signs of contagion, hazardous chemicals, radiation, any number of potential dangers. Moreover, a fire control team slowly stepped in through the entry, decked out in full gear, extinguishing equipment in hand, very much as poised as the armed Marines around the hangar.

After several tense moments, the hesitant crewmen checking the exterior backed away from the craft, the Petty Officer in charge of the detail quickly making his way over to Commodore Ross as the rest of the crewmembers began to stow away the detection gear.

"Report?" snapped Ross flatly, his eyes not leaving the craft.

"Nothing significant to report, sir," replied Petty Officer, shaking his head slightly as he handed one of the devices over to another crewmember. "Picked up a few chemical residues on the exterior, my guess is it's some sort of minor fuel leakage, but nothing particularly hazardous."

"Radiation?"

"A bit higher than normal ambient, but still far lower than your typical X-ray, Commodore."

"Very well," sighed Ross as he glanced around at the poised Marine detail around the bay periphery. "Everyone stand at ease."

Relaxing only somewhat, a few of the Marines continued to flex their fingers around the grips of their five-eighties, vigilant, indeed, _hyper_-vigilant for anything out-of-the-ordinary.

Out-of-the-ordinary…

He couldn't honestly remember the last time things had even _been_ ordinary.

Moreover, as he stood looking at the craft in the middle of the bay, Ross somehow doubted they ever would be again.

A massive and powerful warship of unknown origin was hovering in space nearby…

Yet another unknown spacecraft resting on the elevator pad before him…

It was as he began to let out a long, tired breath that Commodore Ross heard the hangar bay's entry hatch behind him open once again. Looking back over his shoulder, Ross was more than a touch surprised when the _Saratoga_'s Chaplain, Captain Edmund Shaff, stepped in.

"What are you doing here, Padre?" asked Ross evenly.

"I was told by some of our people over at Bay Eight that a couple more of our men would be returning over here, Commodore," replied Shaff evenly as he closed the hatch, a task made slightly more difficult by the bible he seemed to always be clutching in one hand. "I came over just in case they were in need of some spiritual guidance in the wake of their experiences."

"Right," sighed Ross somewhat dubiously as Shaff took a few tentative steps towards him. "Question is, Chaplain, do you really expect me to believe that load of horse puckey?"

Momentarily struck by Commodore Ross's abrupt if coloful question, Shaff hesitated, smiling weakly as he nervously kneaded the bible in his hands.

Most decidedly not in the mood for nonsense, Commodore Ross regarded Shaff somewhat sternly.

"Chaplain, in all seriousness, now is _not_ a good time for casual spectators," said Ross evenly, arms crossed as he motioned his head over towards the armed Marines around the bay.

Still hesitating, Shaff himself glanced warily at the armed Marines around the area, but nevertheless took a few more steps closer to the Commodore.

"Can I be frank with you, sir?"

"It would be better if you were _brief_."

"This ship has already been witness to a number of historic moments," began Shaff, himself stealing a momentary glance past Ross at the strange ship sitting only a few feet away. "This unknown ship clearly has the potential for changing…"

"Pick up the pace, Chaplain," interjected Ross impatiently.

"I just _want_ to be here, Commodore," said Shaff flatly, looking Ross squarely in the eye through his thick-rimmed glasses.

Commodore Ross, impatient enough as he already was, was on the verge of chastising Shaff, fully prepared to rattle off any one of thousand different reasons for the Chaplain to leave, and leave quickly. But as he stood there, looking into the almost cherubic, if aged, face of _Saratoga_'s primary spiritual advisor, the Commodore's edge softened a bit.

Finally, Ross simply let out a long sigh.

"Very well," he said.

Returning his full attention to the craft sitting only a few feet away, Commodore Ross even managed to muster a hint of a grin.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to have God's personal representative here for this; just try to stay out of the way."

Without another word, Shaff stepped back over towards the entry hatch, immediately settling into his best impression of a wallflower as he stood up against the bulkhead.

Gently shaking his head, Commodore Ross almost appreciated the moment of relative levity Shaff had brought to the occasion as his mind refocused on the curious question as to why it was apparently taking the craft's occupants so long to emerge.

As if in answer to that silent question, Commodore Ross was slightly startled when the entire left side of the ship suddenly began to lift upwards.

Slowing lowering his arms as he watched the small ship's entryway, Commodore Ross slipped more-or-less into a relaxed parade rest as he watched six figures come into view behind the rising hatch.

Two of the figures inside, both apparently female, were outfitted in some form of vaguely iridescent green-gold coveralls, he guessed some form of flight suits.

Another of the figures, also a woman, was clad in an all-black uniform, not too dissimilar from standard U.S. issue BDU's.

Ross also noted that each of the three women were armed, each wearing a sidearm holstered against their thigh.

A fourth figure, a man in perhaps his mid to late thirties, was dressed in an all-blue uniform with red trim.

But while everything about the first four individuals was as generally, even ambiguously unfamiliar to Commodore Ross as the ship they were in, the last two figures inside the craft were as familiar to him as the feel of the railings around _Saratoga_'s bridge.

"West, Hawkes!" burst Ross as he caught site of the two wayward pilots.

With Commodore Ross's voice all but echoing off the bulkheads, both of the Marines immediately snapped their attention to the Commodore. Quickly making their way out along the craft's stubby winglet, the two of them immediately hopped down, the sound of their boots hitting the deck reverberating off the bulkheads around the bay.

Almost as soon as their boots were once more firmly on the deck of the _Saratoga_, both West and Hawkes snapped to crisp attention before Ross, the two of them immediately rendering a salute to the Commodore.

"Captain Nathan West, Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes, requesting permission to come aboard, sir," said West evenly.

For a moment, Ross simply stood there, looking from West to Hawkes, then back at West, appraising them, trying to divine by sight alone whether the two figures standing before him were indeed who they appeared to be, or whether this was part of some deception.

It was easy for Ross to be suspicious of a group of enlisted Marines from a unit with which he'd had no previous contact.

It was even easy for Ross to be suspicious of people with whom he was familiar when they were merely voices over the radio.

But as he stood there, looking at the two men with his own eyes, Ross's instinct, his experience, the very hairs on the back of his neck told him these two were _exactly_ who they claimed to be.

"Permission granted, Captain West," replied Ross finally, returning the salute.

As both men lowered their salutes, Ross took a half-step closer, letting off a slight snort as he looked at Hawkes.

"Where's your plane, Lieutenant?"

"Full of holes back over on their ship, sir," replied Hawkes evenly as he motioned his head back towards the four figures still waiting up in the craft.

"And why didn't you _fly_ it back to the _Saratoga_?" continued Ross, leaning in just a bit towards Hawkes.

"No fuel, sir," replied Hawkes with a slight shrug. "Chigs hit my fuel tanks and took out one of my engines."

"Tell me, Lieutenant, why is it whenever you explain something it always sounds less like a reason and more like an excuse?"

"I dunno," shrugged Hawkes, still a bit puzzled by the apparent dressing down he was receiving.

Letting off a sharp breath, Ross shook his head slightly, then stepped over in front of West.

"And what about you, Captain; what's _your_ excuse?"

"Sir, I lost _my_ plane to enemy fire."

"And how did that happen, exactly?"

"Sir, with respect, it was five against one, and I got four of them."

"Nice to know you can count, that will come in handy figuring out how long it will take you on your salary to pay off the bill for a new plane."

Taking a half step back away from the two, Ross took another deep breath, allowing the barest hint of a grin to slip through his normally stern expression.

"Now that I've had the chance to express my _official_ indignation at the loss of two very expensive Hammerhead fighters, on a personal note, let me just say, it's _damned_ good to see you two are alive."

Giving each of the two men a brief, firm handshake, Commodore Ross then returned his attention to the four figures still holding their place inside the strange craft.

With a quick motion of his head, Ross signaled for both Hawkes and West to step back around behind him as he continued to eye the waiting visitors.

"Are you certain they don't understand anything we're saying, Captain West?"

"No, sir, not a word," replied West evenly.

"Well since it was you two who vouched for them coming over in the first place, can I presume you also have a way we might proceed?" asked Ross flatly as he rapidly grew weary of all the uncomfortable staring.

"To be honest, sir, we hadn't thought that far ahead," replied Hawkes evenly.

Shaking his head slightly, Ross let out the slightest of snorts as he continued to eye the four visitors.

At last, Ross opted to simply wave the waiting visitors down from the craft.

* * *

><p>Prompted forward by the man who'd been speaking to Hawkes and West, Commander Sean Kelso took his first tentative step out onto the Raptor's winglet.<p>

Almost as soon as his foot was outside the craft, Commander Kelso felt the firm grip of Captain Gaines as she took hold of his arm.

"Maybe I should go out first, sir," muttered Gaines as she stood beside him, her eyes very much wary of the armed soldiers arrayed around the bay.

Reaching up, Commander Kelso slowly pulled her fingers free of his arm.

"Three things, Captain," sighed Commander Kelso, his own eyes locked on the waiting entourage as he felt her hand fall away from his arm. "First, since this is the next, necessary step towards real communication with these people, it's better if I be the one who goes first. Second, if they wanted to shoot us down, they had plenty of opportunity to do so during our flight over. Lastly, if you keep sliding that other hand of yours down towards your sidearm, they _will_ gun us down."

Her heart literally racing, Captain Gaines nevertheless took Commander Kelso's final statement to heart, her hand pausing mere centimeters from the grip of her sidearm before finally dropping back away.

Taking a deep, steadying breath Commander Sean Kelso made his way down the winglet of the Raptor, taking great care not to slip or trip up as he went; his slipping and falling off the winglet would likely have made a very poor first impression.

Stepping down off the winglet, however, his mind couldn't help but wander a bit, musing over the undeniably historic significance of so simple an act; a Colonial Fleet Commander stepping onto the deck of what could very well be an Earth ship, a ship belonging to the long-lost Thirteenth Tribe.

Smiling slightly to himself at that thought, Commander Kelso nevertheless returned his conscious attention the older gentleman who stood waiting for him in front of West and Hawkes.

Taking another deep breath, Commander Kelso glanced around at the myriad of armed soldiers, trying to appear far more casual then he actually felt, then looked the man himself directly in the eye.

Small steps…

Very slowly, very deliberately, Commander Sean Kelso came to attention and lifted his hand, rendering a parade-perfect salute.

"Commander Sean Kelso, Commanding Officer, Colonial Warstar _Galactica_," he said evenly.

It was clear from the way the man immediately glanced back over his shoulder at West, presumably to illicit some information from the young man, that he had no clear idea of what it was Kelso was actually saying.

But after exchanging a few quick words with West, it was clear from the way he himself likewise snapped to attention and returned Kelso's salute, the man at least understood the gesture and sentiment of respect that the Colonial Commander was trying to convey.

Small steps…

"_Commodore Glen van Ross, United States Naval Carrier _Saratoga," he said evenly.

No doubt much like his counterpart, Commander Kelso didn't understand exactly what the man was saying. Presuming the statement was likewise an identification of name and title, Commander Kelso divined the man's name to be Ross.

As they both lowered their respective salutes, the next step was taken by Ross himself as he slowly extended his hand out to Kelso. Taking firm hold, Commander Kelso exchanged a quick, polite handshake with Ross, adding a slight, respectful nod of the head.

Intent on not allowing these first steps to devolve once more into an uncomfortable silence, Commander Kelso smiled as he tentatively held up a hand, signaling for Ross to more-or-less excuse him as he looked back over at the still motionless Gaines, Cetina and Petrovich.

"Now listen to me very carefully," began Kelso as he looked up at the three officers. "Very slowly, very deliberately, I want you, one at a time, starting with you Captain Gaines, to make a show of unloading and clearing your sidearms."

"Sir?" sputtered Gaines, scowling slightly as she absently motioned at the armed men still surrounding the area. "What about…"

"Do it, Captain," said Kelso evenly.

Letting out a long, decidedly frustrated sigh, Gaines nevertheless did exactly as the Commander ordered.

Her eyes never leaving the heavily armed entourage surrounding the bay, Gaines held up one hand as she turned slightly, placing the holster on her hip in clear sight. Gaines then reached down with her other hand, slowly pulling the weapon free. While a few of the armed guards hesitated when she did so, Gaines was at least relieved that she wasn't looking down their rifle muzzles as she held her sidearm in full view of everyone, keeping her finger very deliberately away from the trigger. Reaching up with her other hand she then dropped the magazine out, then pulled and locked the slide back, ejecting the lone round from the chamber. Continuing to hold the weapon in clear view, Gaines then placed magazine, weapon with slide still locked to the rear, and the ejected round down onto the ECO panel.

As Gaines stepped back away, hands clearly displayed as being empty, Commander Kelso nodded slightly, next bidding Cetina and in turn Petrovich to do likewise.

Once all three had placed their emptied sidearms down on the ECO panel, Commander Kelso motioned for them to make their way down from the Raptor.

"Sir, I don't suppose I still have time to object?" muttered Gaines from beside him, a decidedly forced a grin on her face as she actually waved somewhat facetiously at one of the edgier armed guards.

"No, but if you keep waving like that, I might be able to convince them you were once Miss Caprica City," retorted Kelso evenly as he looked back over at Ross.

"Somehow I doubt that would impress them much," sighed Gaines as she stood, fidgeting somewhat beside Commander Kelso.

As Gaines, Cetina and Petrovich stood in line silently beside him, Commander Kelso took another deep breath as he looked across at Ross, uncertain, trying to figure out some way to facilitate communication enough to dispel the tension that still permeated the demeanors of the men ringing the bay.

"I don't suppose you've heard any good jokes lately?" muttered Kelso, smiling weakly at Ross.

Although Petrovich let out a slight chuckle at the quip, there was no appreciable response or change in Ross's bearing, indeed his expression seemed to contort slightly in still more confusion.

But while there was still a clear amount of confusion and uncertainty in Ross, West and Hawkes, Commander Kelso saw that another man, who till now had merely been standing off to one side near a hatchway, did seem to react with a touch of surprise.

Slowly making his way down, the man, an older gentleman dressed in a khaki uniform similar to Ross's if less ornately decorated, held a clearly puzzled expression on his face.

Apparently noting the older man's approach, Ross turned to him.

* * *

><p>"I thought I told you to stay out of the way, Chaplain," muttered Ross, himself suddenly noting the clearly perplexed reaction on Shaff's face.<p>

"I know, you did, sir, it's just…" muttered Shaff, shaking his head slightly as he continued to take slow, calculated steps closer to the assemblage. "There's something I think you should know."

"And what is that?" asked Ross flatly.

"Crazy as it sounds, sir, I think I _understood_ some of what he's been saying," continued Shaff, momentarily pointing his ubiquitous edition of the King James Bible towards Kelso.

"What do you mean, you _think_ you understood him?" asked Ross as he glanced over at Kelso, the man himself attentively cognizant of the interaction between Ross and Shaff.

"Give me a moment, sir," replied Shaff as he stepped still closer.

* * *

><p>"What do you think <em>he<em> wants?" muttered Gaines as she watched the older gentleman step closer to the Commander, his expression one of clear concentration.

"He certainly seems to have something on his mind," muttered Cetina.

For his part, as he stood there looking at the older man, at the subtly surprised if still questioning expression on the man's face, Commander Kelso gently shook his head as the man made a few hesitant gestures with his hands.

"I don't understand what you're asking me," said Kelso simply.

It was then, with surprise on top of frustration that the older man suddenly stopped his hand movements, straightened up a bit, and looked Kelso straight in the eye.

"My person are wanted known not implausibly you are if words which speaks my mouth is," the older man suddenly said.

"Commander?" muttered Gaines, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge, her tone as much apprehension as it was surprise.

"My gods, is he _talking_ to us?" burst Petrovich.

"It would certainly seem so," said Commander Kelso, at last relaxing a bit as a hint of a grin spread back across his face. "The grammar is off, _way_ off, almost like he's mixing Caprican words with ancient Tauron grammar and sentence structure…"

"You know Tauron, sir?" muttered Cetina.

"My mother was a traditionalist," replied Kelso evenly. "Big believer in the idea that we couldn't have a clear view of where we were going as a society unless we had a firm grasp on our past, languages included."

"Only thing my mom tried to teach me was how to use by boobs to get out of a traffic ticket," interjected Gaines.

More or less ignoring Gaines' comment, Commander Kelso cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting a bit as looked the older man straight in the eye.

"The language and grammar are old and a bit mixed, but yes, I understand you a little bit."

* * *

><p>"Shaff, what the hell is going on?" shot Ross as he grew impatient at the exchange.<p>

Looking over at Ross, Shaff actually chuckled a bit as he lightly shook his head.

"Captain Shaff, sir, are you actually able to talk to them?" sputtered West.

"Latin, a bit of ancient Greek, maybe a touch of some Hebrew or Aramaic influence…" muttered Shaff, not responding so much as concentrating.

"I'm not following what you're telling me, Chaplain," warned Ross as he looked back and forth from Shaff to an equally rapt Kelso.

"I'm sorry, sir, the best explanation I have is for you to think of it this way," began Shaff, licking his dry lips slightly as he fidgeted with the bible in his hands. "French, Italian, Spanish and Portuguese all grew out of one common root language; Latin. You speak one, you might be able to get the gist of what someone is saying in the other."

"Keep talking, Padre," muttered Ross, his attention suddenly captured.

"Their language sounds like an amalgam, or some derivation, something that might result if one began with ancient Greek, Latin, _several_ of the classic Mediterranean and Indo-European languages and slowly integrated them over time," said Shaff, his tone clearly excited, his face actually flush. "Certain words would be similar, verbs, nouns, grammar, but still a distinct and separate language would emerge."

"So you can _talk_ to them?" asked Hawkes flatly.

"We're not about to be having any deep, meaningful conversations any time soon," replied Shaff, shrugging slightly. "But, yes, I do recognize _some_ of what they are saying, at least on a basic level."

"I'll be damned," muttered Ross, for the first time actually grinning.

"Sir, I'm not saying I understand _everything_ they're saying," interjected Shaff. "There's still a _lot_ about their language that's going to need study."

"Maybe so, Chaplain," sighed Ross, shaking his head slightly. "But at least it's a start."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Letting out a long, steadying sigh, Colonel Thadius Runel fought the compulsion to look up at the clock on DRADIS.

With another sigh, this one of resignation, Runel relented and looked up.

Three hours…

Three hours since Commander Kelso and _Galactica_ had jumped away.

But it's not as if his errant CO had left the rest of the fleet unawares of what was taking place.

Ever since the ship had jumped away and engaged the alien fleet, _Galactica_ had thankfully been relaying back updates on their status, including information that they'd made direct, if tentative, contact with the Earth fleet.

While it was clear from the reports that _Galactica_ had encountered little, indeed almost pitiful levels of resistance from the alien ships, Colonel Runel was nevertheless still somewhat apprehensive.

With the task of maintaining the safety and security of the civilians his until _Galactica_ returned, Colonel Runel wasn't taking any chances.

Both _Savitri_ and _Proteus_ had nothing less than a full squadron each up flying CAP around the fleet. Raptor pickets had also been deployed, more than tripling the overall DRADIS detection range of the fleet.

Eyes open, swords drawn, they waited.

And waited…

As he stood looking at the DRADIS overhead, nothing but their own fleet anywhere within range, Colonel Thadius Runel let off another restless sigh.

"Colonel Runel?"

"What is it, Templeton?" muttered Runel, his tone a touch more sour than he would have liked.

"_Pacifica_-Actual is on the line for you, sir."

With the slightest of nods, Runel reached down and picked up the handset from the side of the plot table.

"_Enceladus_-Actual," he muttered as he looked back up at the blank DRADIS.

"_You don't sound like you're in much of a mood, Colonel_," began the voice of Adrian Kelso on the other end of the line.

"To be frank with you, sir, I'm not," replied Runel evenly. "Three hours now he's been gone."

"_Three hours, six minutes and thirty-two seconds_," countered Adrian Kelso with an audible sigh. "_Not that I'm watching the clock or anything_."

Runel couldn't help but grin slightly.

"_Have there been any further updates_?"

"Last report indicated the Commander was heading over for a face-to-face meeting with the Earth fleet," began Runel evenly as he looked down at the short stack of printouts resting on top of the plot board. "By now, presumably, his boots are walking the decks of an Earth ship."

"_You don't think it was a good decision, do you_?"

"Well, I'm willing to concede that it is the next inevitable step but…" began Runel, pausing as he glanced once more at the blank DRADIS overhead. "I just feel like the deeper we get into this situation, the murkier the waters become."

"_Militarily, at least, it would seem we have some distinct advantages_," replied the elder Kelso evenly. "Galactica _reported only minimal casualties and no damage from their battle with the alien fleet_."

"Granted," replied Runel evenly as he reached down and picked up one of the reports. "But something, I don't know, still feels _wrong_ about this whole situation."

"_Any reason you didn't bring this up during the last briefing_?"

"Helping the Earth fleet survive was definitely the _right_ thing to do, I agree with your son entirely in that regard," began Runel as he set the report back down, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to best think how to convey his admittedly ambiguous suspicion. "But something still bugs me about this whole situation."

"_Maybe it's being left behind_," offered Adrian Kelso evenly. "_You're a soldier, natural that you might feel like you missed out on the fight_."

"There were _plenty_ of fights I wasn't left out of back at the Colonies," sighed Runel as he looked around casually at the scorch marks still adorning some of his CIC's bulkheads. "Besides, seems pretty clear from the reports that _Galactica_ was more than a match for these alien warships."

"_Then what exactly is troubling you, Colonel_?"

Pausing, Runel once more looked around the CIC, more or less checking to see if anyone was paying any undue attention to his conversation.

"Are you much of a religious man, sir?" he finally asked.

"_I'm no temple priest, but I've offered up a prayer or two in my day_," replied Adrian Kelso evenly, though hesitantly. "_Times being what they are, everything we've survived and endured, I suppose it would be hard to bend one's knee before gods that allowed our civilization to be annihilated_."

"The gods didn't create the Cylons, _we_ did," countered Runel, feeling a bit silly a moment later when he reminded himself that Adrian Kelso was a veteran of the first war against the Cylons. "Hard to blame them for something our own hubris unleashed."

"_Then what's troubling you_?"

"I guess it just seems a little too convenient."

"_Convenient_?" scoffed Adrian Kelso slightly. "_How so_?"

"Well," sighed Runel, trying to organize in his own mind what it was he was feeling. "We escaped the destruction of our civilization, survived with enough people to remember what was lost, enough survivors to rebuild if given the chance. But during out escape, by means we scarcely have even begun to understand, we jumped, randomly, far beyond known space. What are the odds that of all the places we could have ended up in the universe we'd end up so close to the location of the Thirteenth Tribe?"

"_Slim to none, I would imagine_," replied Adrian Kelso, his tone almost one of concession. "_You're thinking this is some sort of test from the gods_?"

"If the sacred scrolls teach us one thing, it's that the gods have their own eccentric, sometimes capricious, sometimes even cruel ways for testing our faith."

"_Plucking us from the middle of one war only to drop us into the middle of another would be one hell-of-a cruel test. If you're right, though, what do you think we are supposed to be learning_?"

"That's what I can't figure out," shrugged Runel, himself all but obsessed by the same question as he looked back up at the empty DRADIS. "But, gods dammit, I wish I knew."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Main Briefing**

Reaching up, Commodore Glen van Ross let out a long sigh as he gently thumped his fingers against the flickering light overhead.

"Sign of the times," he muttered as the light defied his laymen's attempt to correct the flicker.

Shaking his head, Ross tried to forget the annoying flicker as he clasped his hands once more behind his back and turned away from the light.

"Problem, sir?" asked Chief Martin as she stepped up to Ross and handed over a clipboard full of reports.

"Nothing about three months in drydock won't fix," sighed Ross as he began flipping through the pages on the clipboard.

"Maybe more than that, sir," replied Chief Martin soberly. "DC teams are still trying to patch back up our damage, but Chief Brewer says a few of his teams are beginning to see signs of endemic metal fatigue amidships."

Glancing up momentarily at Chief Martin, Ross looked at her rather questioningly for a moment before nodding with dawning understanding.

"The fires," he growled, looking back down at the reports.

"Yes, sir," said Chief Martin as she reached over and flipped a few more reports away till she reached the one from Chief Brewer. "Beyond the simple kinetic damage of absorbing enemy ordnance, some areas of the ship have been exposed to high temperature fires over a dozen times."

"Add in the rapid cooling from a few vent actions…" continued Ross, shaking his head as he skimmed through the report. "Her bones are becoming brittle."

At last, flipping all the reports back with frustration, even a bit of disgust, Ross let out a huffed breath.

"We need to get her back to dock or she's going to crack in half," muttered Ross as he absently looked around at the bulkheads.

Handing the clipboard back to Chief Martin, Ross silently dismissed her with the simplest nod of his head.

As Chief Martin made her way back out of the conference room, Commodore Ross absently reached over and ran his hand along a section of bulkhead, doing nothing so much as caressing it for a moment as he pondered his ship's mortality.

"Stay with me old girl," muttered Ross.

Letting out another sigh, Ross turned back to the conference table.

At the far end of the table, the apparent CO of the massive warship, Kelso, sat with his three officers. And gathered around them was a cluster of officers quickly pulled together from throughout the fleet at Chaplain Shaff's suggestion.

First there were Lieutenant Oren Witz, a Rabbi, and Lieutenant Commander Paul Kesterson, a Roman Catholic Priest, both of whom had been shuttled over from the _Powell._

Next was Lieutenant Commander Aalim Rahman, an Islamic Imam over from the fleet's UK contingent, the _Liverpool_.

Lastly, Commander Aiden Denio, a Greek Intelligence Officer also serving aboard the _Liverpool_ had also come over. Prior to his posting with Military Intelligence, Denio had taken several internships at the Archaeological Museum of Epidaurus in Epidavros, Greece while earning his degree.

Now, sequestered away in the conference room, this nascent linguistic Brain Trust; hadn't taken long for the scuttlebutt aboard _Saratoga_ to dub them such; had spent the last couple hours speaking with the visitors, pouring over their own holy texts and dictionaries to find commonalities in the ancient, and in some cases utterly dead languages with the one being spoken by Kelso and his people.

While Ross had initially been somewhat skeptical, accepting Shaff's proposal pretty much because it was the only viable one available, the ad hoc arrangement had nevertheless apparently begun making some headway in establishing at least rudimentary communication by deciphering out what Shaff had identified, at least somewhat accurately, as common root languages centered predominately around the ancient Meditarranean and Middle Eastern and Saharan Africa regions.

As the two groups continued to chatter back and forth, confusion over exact word forms still very much evident as each group wrestled out the meaning of what the other was saying, Commodore Ross slowly made his way back over.

"Progress, Captain Shaff?" asked Ross simply.

"Small steps, but progress _is_ being made, Commodore," replied Shaff eagerly, pausing as he scribbled down a few phrases onto a pad of paper he had before him.

"Give me the quick report, and make it simple."

"Think of it like this, sir," began Shaff, his tone very much excited. "Their current language is a commonly reached conglomerate of at least a dozen root languages, a few we've been able to nail down, a couple still unknown. Perhaps like something that would happen if you stranded people from different countries together with no interpreter, eventually they'd start to meld their native languages together into a mixed form that everyone would more or less understand."

"Are we any closer to being able to talk to them effectively?" asked Ross flatly. "As you might imagine I have more than a few questions I'd like to ask, not the least of which is where the hell they come from."

"It's going to take time, Commodore," replied Shaff evenly. "We should be able to make much more progress once we get them back to Earth."

"_If_ we take them back to Earth," corrected Ross flatly as he looked over at Kelso.

"Why wouldn't we, sir?" asked Commander Denio.

"Why?" sputtered Ross, half chuckling. "Because the Chigs already have our forces in full retreat. This ship, this _fleet_ is already on its last legs, gentlemen. At this point, we'll have to count ourselves very lucky if we make it home at all."

Pausing, Ross tried to ebb the anger from his voice, if only to ward off the blatant stares he was receiving from Kelso and his people.

"The last thing I intend to do is to lead a potentially hostile force directly to our home world," continued Ross a moment later, working overtime to keep his tone even.

"With respect, Commodore, I'm not sure I understand your reluctance," began Commander Rahman. "These people have shown us no hostility."

"I agree, sir, if anything quite the opposite, they did after all destroy most of the Chig fleet that was attacking us," interjected Lieutenant Witz.

"Let me be clear, gentleman," began Ross, leaning in a bit over the conference table as he eyed each of the officers carefully. "Until I have a better idea of their origin and intent, I will _not_ be responsible for giving them the location of Earth."

For a moment, there was a silent pause as each of the suddenly uncomfortable officers found themselves locked in Ross's glare.

War weary as the Commodore was, as everyone in the fleet was, having watched so many thousands of good men and women die, were there really any good arguments against Commodore Ross' logic?

Clearing his throat a bit, Captain Shaff, looking back at the Commodore from behind his thick military-issue glasses, met Ross' stare.

"With respect, sir, if you're thinking these people are somehow in league with the Chigs, that this is somehow nothing more than a ruse, I must point out one thing," said Shaff evenly as he nodded over in the direction of Kelso and his people.

"And what is that, Captain Shaff?"

"If this is an enemy trick, wouldn't they _already_ know the location of Earth?"

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Hammerhead Maintenance Bay**

"I thought the docs told you to get some sleep?" began Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes as he stepped in through the hatch.

"Kind of hard when my old rack, hell, our entire berthing area, is in a decompressed section of the ship," replied West evenly, not turning to look at Hawkes.

Nodding slightly, Hawkes simply stood there for a moment, hesitant.

At the moment, save for Hawkes and West, the entire bay was clear of personnel.

Not that there were even any Hammerhead cockpits left in the bay in need of servicing.

For West, his return to the _Saratoga_ was turning into the very definition of bittersweet.

All over the ship, empty bays like this one had become the norm as the ship's air wing had been ground down by the enemy over the last couple months, down to a mere forty-seven planes from her full capacity of one-hundred and ninety two.

Reaching up, West casually grabbed hold of one of the overhead railings, shaking his head as he looked out across the empty bay, the service pits that once held rows of Hammerhead cockpits all empty, looking like nothing so much as unfilled graves.

"I don't suppose you managed to keep any of my stuff?" asked West, glancing once more back over at Hawkes.

"They emptied your locker while I was out on a recon," replied Hawkes, again shaking his head apologetically as he took a few tentative steps closer. "I guess they must've sent it home to your folks before the supply convoys were cut off."

Nodding slightly, West took a deep breath as he looked back over at the haunting, grave-like service pits.

"I tried to tell 'em," muttered Hawkes, shaking his head slightly. "I told 'em you weren't dead…"

"It's okay, Coop, it's not your fault," replied West, glancing back over his shoulder. "They're just doing what the military does when…"

His voice trailing off, West turned back to look out across the bay.

"I can't even get a message out to my folks that I'm alive," sighed West, bowing his head slightly. "Damned communications blackout…"

"You'll be able to let them know once we get back to Earth," offered Hawkes, tentatively reaching over to place a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Kylen, too."

At the sound of Kylen's name, West felt himself begin to well-up with the first tears he could remember crying in apparently far too long.

Sobbing lightly, he dipped his head, the tears rolling down his cheek, falling to the deck.

"Hey, hey, hey," began Hawkes, squeezing West's shoulder a bit. "Dude, you're _alive_, that's what counts, right?"

"But they don't know that, Coop," sobbed West, the tears still streaming down his face. "My folks, everything that happened to Neil, they don't know _I'm_ still alive, all they know is what some damned form letter in the mail said, declaring me either dead or missing. All these months…"

With that, West's voice trailed off once more as he continued to sob gently.

"As many friends as we've lost already, West, be thankful you're still here," began Hawkes evenly. "They can't go home, at least you can."

Looking over at Hawkes, West met his gaze, his childlike grin strangely comforting.

There were many people back on Earth who still clung to the racist notion that somehow InVitros, lacking a biological mother and father, also lacked a soul, lacked that spark of 'true humanity' that was somehow supposed to delineate natural-borns as being 'real' humans.

But as he looked over at Hawkes, into his eyes, at his grin, at the man who not too long ago had been little more than an annoyance, a reminder of why he and Kylen had been separated in the first place, and finally over time, a friend, West could only believe that anyone who believed InVitros were somehow less human was a fucking moron.

Taking strength from his friend's eyes, West fought to regain his composure. Taking deep, slow breaths, West slowly straightened back up, his sapped strength nevertheless still enough to hold him upright once more.

And apparently just in time.

With a distinct thud, the sound of the entry hatch opening echoed off the empty service bay bulkheads as both West and Hawkes turned to see Commodore Glen van Ross stepping in.

Without word or preamble, Commodore Ross took a deep breath and began quickly making his way over towards the two Marines.

While their first instinct was to snap to attention, Commodore Ross quickly waved a dismissive hand as he made his way across the service bay.

While Commodore Ross was typically, even notoriously rigid and hard to read, there was something changed about the man's demeanor that the two young officers were able to detect; his stride, his posture just seemed _different_ somehow.

The fact that Ross had protected the two of them from harsh repercussions following the debacle on Anvil was not lost on either Hawkes or West. No doubt, as the front lines began to all but crumble under the resurgent strength of the Chig counteroffensive, the Commodore had fought nothing less than a Herculean effort to keep the two of them out of the brig if not a gallows.

Knowing that their actions, no matter how objectively benign the intent behind them was, had led to the cancellation of Operation Roundhammer was a burden keenly felt by Captain Nathan West and Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes. Indeed, considering the fact that ongoing combat had been all that had seemingly kept the two out of the brig, the idea of returning to Earth also meant the possibility that responsibility for the utter failure to end the war decisively would once again be placed squarely at the feet of the two Marines, if only because they were the only ones left alive to blame.

From the way Commodore Ross was approaching them now, it was all too possible that he was about to advise them to be ready for just such a possibility, to prepare them for something far less than a welcome home, perhaps even a firing squad.

As the Commodore stepped up to them however, there seemed to be a subtle questioning in his eyes, as though he had come to them less as a commanding officer, and more as a man in search of an answer.

"Doc Kanellos said you left sickbay," sighed Ross as he looked over at West. "Somehow I figured you'd be down here."

"Just seemed like the place to be, sir," replied West weakly as he looked back around at the empty bay, in fact, the _exact_ bay that had once been assigned to the Fifty-Eighth.

"Familiar surroundings," nodded Ross, likewise looking around the silent bay, understanding.

Taking a deep breath, Ross looked back over at the two officers, West and Hawkes all but uncertain, waiting for other proverbial shoe to drop.

"I've just spent the last two hours listening to Captain Shaff and his associates doing their best to try and make heads or tails of the visitors' language," began Commodore Ross evenly. "Frankly, I needed a break."

"How long before the wormhole opens up for transit, sir?" asked West.

"Not for another forty-eight hours, give or take," replied Ross evenly as he began pacing his way slowly around the bay, pausing to fiddle with one of the pneumatic wrenches hanging idly from the ceiling. "Forty-eight hours …"

West and Hawkes glanced at one another. The way the Commodore was saying it, it might as well have been an omen of doom to the ears of the young men.

"Why are you here, sir?" asked Hawkes flatly after a few tense, silent seconds.

As if caught somewhat off-guard by the abrupt question, Ross turned back to them both.

"Why am _I_ here?" he muttered, his tone almost indignant. "This is _my_ ship, Lieutenant Hawkes, I can go any _damned_ where I please aboard her."

But even as he all but growled out words that could have served as a preamble to a solid ass-chewing, Ross' features softened once more.

"The reason why I am here is simple," continued Ross, taking a few steps closer to West and Hawkes. "I need to _know_."

"Know what, sir?" muttered Hawkes, shaking his head slightly, confused.

"I need to know about these people you two have toted over to my ship," replied Ross evenly, shaking his own head. "Where they _come_ from, what they _want_, what they're _thinking_."

"Sir, are you asking us our opinion?" asked West tentatively.

Taking a deep breath, Commodor Ross slowly crossed his arms.

"I've read your after-action report, Captain West," began Ross evenly. "How one of their combat teams broke a Chig assault on your position, rendered aid to your wounded."

"Let's not forget that they saved this fleet too, sir," interjected Hawkes. "If they hadn't appeared, the Chigs would have blasted us to debris by now."

Pausing, Ross simply eyed Hawkes for a moment, annoyed enough that it showed in his face, but saying nothing.

"Perhaps," he said finally, still eyeing Hawkes. "In any event, I am not in a position to simply take at face value what has taken place. I need something more, something _tangible_."

"I'm not sure what else I can tell you, sir," began West, shaking his head slightly. "I mean, other than a few hand signals, we really couldn't talk to them either."

"But you were with them long enough to get a sense of who they are," countered Ross. "Beyond food and medicine, how would you describe how you were treated, the off-the-record version."

"Suspicious at first, maybe," began West, his mind pouring over his time aboard the large ship. "But at the same time curious, as curious about us as we are about them in fact, almost like they hadn't expected to find us or didn't know we existed."

"So you really don't think they're from Earth?" asked Ross flatly.

Pausing, West glanced over at Hawkes.

He'd mentioned that idea to Hawkes before, only to be met with the InVitro's inflexible train of logic that said humans, natural born or InVitro, only came from Earth.

Titling his head slightly, somewhat apprehensive, West looked Ross squarely in eye.

"No, sir, I don't."

Taking a deep breath, Ross stepped still closer.

"You do realize how that sounds, don't you, Captain? Human beings _not_ from Earth?"

"Yes, sir, I do," replied West flatly. "But their ships, their technology, it would take years, maybe even _decades_ for Earth to develop some of the gear they have. With respect, do you have any other explanations, Commodore?"

Ross paused, eyes locked with West.

"No, Captain, I do not," he said finally.

Pausing himself, Commodore Ross chewed over his thoughts.

"In fact, crazy as it sounds, I think I might actually _agree_ with you."

For West and Hawkes, it was about as stunning an admission as they'd ever imagined they'd hear from the decidedly pragmatic Commodore Ross.

"Nevertheless, I'm still left with that first, inexorable question; do we dare _trust_ them?"

Pausing, West searched his memory, thought about everything he'd seen, everything he'd experienced. The actions on the moon, the tentative camaraderie on the pistol range. In his mind, there was no question, but how he would be able to convince the Commodore Ross?

"Yes, sir, I think we should," said West evenly.

"Why?"

"Honestly, sir?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Because if they wanted to destroy us, they could have, easily," began West. "Or perhaps, more to the point, they could have simply held back and let us die on that moon, let this fleet be wiped out by the Chigs, but they didn't."

"Our analysis indicates they lost nine planes when they engaged the Chig fighters," interjected Commodore Ross thoughtfully.

"Only proves my point, sir," continued West. "If they hadn't chosen to fight, chosen to save this fleet, those nine pilots, _their_ pilots, would still be alive. They knew just as little about us, yet they chose to fight, and that decision came at a cost to them."

"But _why_ did they choose to intervene?" asked Ross flatly, looking back over into West's eyes.

After a few moment, Commodore Ross let out a long sigh and turned away

"I need something more than mere faith to trust these people, Captain," began Ross as he stood shaking his head. "I need to _talk_ to them."

With his statement hanging over the three of them for a few silent moments, Ross finally turned and prepared to leave the service bay.

As they watched the Commodore leave, Hawkes and West looked at one another.

"Sir?" chimed Hawkes.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" sighed Ross, pausing but not turning back as he reached the hatch.

"You said Captain Shaff and the others are starting to learn more about their language, right?"

"It will take far more time then we have left to decipher their language," sighed Ross. "But, yes, they seem to be making at least some progress."

"Well, we used to have some sort of computer for talking to the Chigs, right?" continued Hawkes, himself taking a few steps over towards the Commodore. "Can't we just rig up some equipment to do the same here? I mean, if Captain Shaff is right, then Kelso and his people are just speaking some sort of ancient language from Earth, shouldn't a computer be able to match up the translation faster?"

Looking back over at Hawkes, Ross' face seemed to brighten.

"Damn, Coop, that's one hell-of-an idea," beamed West.

"Hawkes, you might be onto something with that," admitted the Commodore, pausing thoughtfully as he paced a few steps. "The equipment we used to talk to the Chig ambassador is still aboard, with what Shaff and his team has been able to glean so far, we might be able to cobble _something_ together."

With only the slightest of nods, Ross then turned, opened the hatch, and quickly stepped out.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Main Briefing**

"How long are they going to keep us here?" muttered Lieutenant Cetina impatiently. "I mean, we've been here what, four hours now?"

"I'm not complaining," countered Ensign Petrovich as she munched hungrily on an apple. "Going on seven months now on rations, I'd almost forgotten how good fresh fruit was."

Glancing himself at the sizeable bowl of fresh fruit that had been brought in a little while ago, Commander Sean Kelso casually reached over and likewise picked up an apple, holding it appraisingly for a moment.

"What are you thinking, Commander?" asked Captain Gaines as she stepped up beside him.

"I'm thinking this looks like a pretty good apple," sighed the Commander as he slowly handed it over to Gaines.

"Yes it does," sighed Gaines as she took the apple. "But that's not what I meant."

"I know," grinned Kelso as he looked back down at the other end of the conference table where the five gentlemen they'd been speaking with these last couple hours were still seated, compiling a veritable mountain of hand-written notes.

While he would by no means attempt to categorize the time they'd spent thus far as wasted, indeed, the effort seemed to have at least laid the grounds for bonafide communication, the sluggish process of trying to teach their language to the Earth representatives was nevertheless frustrating to Kelso.

It was a slow process, an impediment, right at a moment when Commander Sean Kelso needed things to begin happening somewhat more quickly.

The last couple communiqués they'd received from _Galatica_, their hosts had thankfully presented little objection to Captain Gaines keeping her short-wave wireless set, seemed to indicate that the rest of the fleet was becoming understandably restless for word from the Commander.

From her voice, it was also clear that Major Burke was becoming just as anxious about having Kelso and his team return from what she considered, by her tone at least, little more than hostile territory.

But as frustratingly slow a process as it was, Commander Kelso could do little more than remind himself that it was a necessary step, they simply _had_ to establish that bridge across the language barrier if he was to find a way to ensure the survival of the people in his charge.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kelso turned away from the deliberations taking place between the five 'translators' at the far end of the conference table.

Making his way casually around the space, the engineer portion of his mind beginning to stir, a whole lifetime of training that now felt as though it had indeed happened in another lifetime entirely, as he began a casual appraisal of the room itself.

Much like the rest of the ship, what little he had actually seen, the conference room was sparse, very much utilitarian in design and accommodation. Having spent his life moving about the comparatively roomy decks and spaces of Colonial vessels, Commander Kelso was decidedly struck by how cramped the Earth vessel felt. She was smaller, by several magnitudes, than _Galactica_, but by no means tiny, and yet the entire ship projected this sense that a lot of equipment and technology had been little more than crammed aboard her. All around and overhead, exposed pipes and conduits ran every which direction; clearly aesthetics had been given a low priority.

And yet, there were subtle hints in her design that as an engineer Kelso was able to pick up on that hinted to him that she was far more than simply a construct hastily cobbled together. The placement of her stanchions, the spacing of the supports, they were the clues that signaled to Commander Kelso that this ship had but one purpose; combat.

This was a warship; nothing more, nothing less.

Stout and sturdy, her bones had been laid out in such a fashion as to be able to withstand an incredible amount of punishment.

Judging by the damage he'd seen across the exterior, an incredible amount of punishment had indeed been wrought upon her, and still, she survived. He had to respect that.

She may be smaller than _Galactica_, but she was tough.

Roused from his appraisal by the sound of the hatch at the far end opening once more, Commander Kelso looked over and saw the man he knew as Ross step back into the conference room.

Ross had left a couple hours ago, leaving the five 'interpreters' to continue their work with Commander Kelso and his officers. When he'd left, it was clear to Kelso that Ross was becoming about as frustrated, if not more so, about the slow progress being made as Kelso was.

From his tone, his body language, it was evident that for whatever reason Ross felt he was operating under a more stringent timetable.

As he stepped back into the conference room, Ross looked across to Kelso and gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement; with real understanding still in its infancy, honestly, there was little else the man could do.

Almost as soon as Ross cleared the entryway however, a veritable army of personnel with armloads of computer equipment poured in through the hatch.

Speaking with his 'interpreters', Ross directed the newly arrived personnel to begin setting up the equipment they'd brought off to one side of the conference room.

"What's going on?" muttered Gaines as she once again stepped up beside the Commander.

As if to answer, one of the interpreters, the older man who'd been the first to apparently recognize the Colonial language, Shaff, made his way down over to Kelso.

"I pardons greeted," he muttered, his face contorting in thought as he struggled to phrase what he was saying in spite of the notepad in his hands. "This trades people am use one contraption, might happen, teach it thinking which language conversion improved soon."

Still utterly confused by the nascent level of communication, Commander Kelso looked past Shaff towards the equipment being set up at the far end of the compartment.

And that is when it seemed to dawn on him what Shaff was trying to convey.

"A translation computer?" muttered Commander Kelso somewhat hopefully.

"Probably couldn't butcher our language any worse than _they_ are," muttered Gaines as she casually took a large bite from the apple still in her hand.

"We're all still learning, Captain," replied Kelso evenly as he nodded to Shaff. "At least they're trying to bridge the gap."

"Comprehension," continued Shaff. "One object, committed maybe time, at once making for foreign nation monsters we resist in opposition to. Odd inventory it words made."

With that, Shaff gave a weak smile and stepped back down to the other end of the conference room.

"Gods, it's like talking to a fraking two year old," sighed Gaines as she gently shook her head.

"Patience," grinned Kelso as he looked over at her. "Let's not forget, you were the one who first got us into this mess by bringing those soldiers up from that moon."

Looking the Commander squarely in the eye, Gaines forced a quaint smile then took another audible bite from the crisp apple.

"Have to keep you employed somehow, sir," she muttered, her attention suddenly focusing away as the wireless earpiece she was wearing crackled to life.

"This is Gaines, send your traffic," she mumbled as she pressed the transmit button clipped to her uniform blouse.

For a few moments, Gaines continued to chew on the chunk of apple she'd bitten off as she listened to the wireless message over the earpiece.

"Copy that, _Galactica_, I will relay," she finally said, taking one more bite as she looked back over at the Commander.

"Let me guess," sighed Kelso, slowly crossing his arms as he continued to watch the personnel set up the equipment at the other end.

"_Another_ request for a status update from her majesty," nodded Gaines, her tone low enough that Cetina and Petrovich wouldn't hear.

"Major Burke is just doing her job, Captain," muttered Kelso evenly as he continued to watch the activity.

"She's high strung is what she is, fart too loud around her and she'd call for Action Stations," muttered Gaines as she took one last bite from her apple then tossed it over into a trash receptacle that had been placed nearby. "I swear, if ever there was a woman in the fleet who needed to get laid…"

Clearing his throat, Commander Kelso looked over at Gaines, cutting her off midsentence with a gentle shake of his head.

"She's _disciplined_, a bit abrupt at times, maybe," he began evenly. "But overall she's a damned good XO."

"I'm not arguing that point, sir," replied Gaines, canting her head slightly. "I just think she has a tendency to micromanage things, even _your_ affairs, a little too much."

"Consider your concerns noted," smiled Kelso as he gave Gaines a gentle nudge. "Now, go ahead and relay to her our status and situation before she turns _Galactica_'s guns on the Earth fleet."

"Aye, sir," replied Gaines dutifully as she stepped away.

* * *

><p>As he watched one of Kelso's people step back away from him, apparently to send a radio message, Ross looked back over at the technicians who were busily setting up the translation computer.<p>

"How long before the equipment is ready?" he asked impatiently.

"We've installed a new hard drive, Commodore, upgraded the primary CPU and expanded the operational memory," began one of the technicians evenly, seemingly oblivious to the tenor in Ross' voice as he connected a few more cables to the back of the main computer terminal. "Once the system's up, we can start loading in the list Captain Shaff and his team have compiled."

"And what happens after that?" asked Ross somewhat impatiently.

"After that, the main program will run the list through translation program's adaptive algorithm matrix, cross referenced against a database we loaded of several dictionaries and thesauruses…"

"Scuttle the technobabble and give me a straight answer, Lieutenant; will we be able to talk to them or not?"

"More or less," replied the technician as he continued to cobble together a few more pieces of equipment. "The base program is adaptive, able to learn; the more they talk, the more we interact, the more precise the translation will become."

As the technician finished connecting the last cables, a slight gleam of triumph on his face, he toggled a button, turning the system on.

As the gentle hum of the computer system coming to life filled the air, there was a brief moment when Ross wondered if the hope of using technical wizardry was for naught as nothing but a blank screen sat before the expectant group.

Collectively, they each sighed a moment later as the conspicuous Aero-Tech company logo appeared on the screen accompanied by an incongruously, at least to Ross' mind, melodic chime.

"System is up," said the technician a moment later as the Aero-Tech logo was replaced by the system's installed GUI.

"Here's the list we've compiled thus far," began Captain Shaff as he settled into a seat beside the technician, hand-scribbled notepad in hand. "In this column are the words we are almost certain of, mostly numbers and nouns. This column we're not so sure about, verbs, adjectives and such."

"Okay," sighed the technician thoughtfully as he took the pad from Captain Shaff and began quickly punching them into the system.

As the small group worked to put the list into the system, Commodore Ross turned and slowly made his way over towards Kelso and his people.

While most of the visitors were more-or-less paying attention to the activity around the computer at the far end of the conference room, Ross could see that Kelso was focusing most of his attention on the Commodore himself.

With so much uncertainty reigning over the current situation, Ross was regimented to regard everything, everyone, including Kelso, with skepticism.

But as he looked into this other man's eyes, Ross couldn't deny feeling strangely disarmed, indeed, almost at ease, as if even now there was some obscure sense of understanding between them.

While Captain Shaff had no doubt been able to convey to Kelso who Ross was, what his place in the hierarchy was, at least in some rudimentary fashion, there was something far more significant underlying the deference that Kelso was affording Ross.

Respect.

That was it.

Kelso's very demeanor conveyed a sense of respect.

The man commanded a vessel that far exceeded the _Saratoga_ in terms of firepower, and yet Kelso regarded Ross with a measure of unspoken esteem.

By all rights, Ross would have been a better candidate for such deference, after all, no amount of bluster or pride could ever deny the simple fact that were it not for Kelso, not for the incontestably powerful vessel under his control, Ross and his fleet would have been utterly destroyed by the Chigs.

The oft cited but often misunderstood sense of understanding that existed between men who'd commanded in battle…

More than pomp and superficial pleasantries, this was the deeper, far more solemn understanding between men who'd issued orders, unapologetically, that had cost men and women their lives on the field of battle.

At last, taking a deep sigh, Ross took a couple tentative steps closer to Kelso, reached up, removed his cover, gently nodded his head appreciatively towards the man.

"Commodore Ross?"

As he turned back towards the groups of officers and technicians at the far side of the room, Ross reached up and slipped his cover into back place.

"What is it, Captain Shaff?" asked Ross evenly.

"I think we're ready to give this a try, sir," replied the Chaplain as he absently pointed over at the computer.

"Very well," sighed Ross, slowly motioning for Kelso to follow.

As the two of them, Ross and Kelso, slowly strode over towards the equipment that had been set up, the small entourage assembled around it parted, Captain Shaff going so far as to offer his seat to Kelso as they stepped up.

Muttering a few brief words, Shaff then handed Kelso a small headset.

Grinning slightly, Kelso looked up at Shaff as he slid the headset into place.

Words aside, the meaning was clear in Kelso's eyes; what am I supposed to do?

Uncertain himself, Shaff nevertheless muttered a few more words, as did Rabbi Witz, which were apparently enough as Kelso simply shrugged and began speaking into the headset's boom mic.

For a few minutes, nothing really seemed to happen as Kelso sat talking, rather casually, into the mic.

No, not quite nothing…

On the screen, a sine wave pattern, apparently Kelso's voice, was being analyzed by the system. On another section of the screen, a scrolling line was randomly shifting, searching, endeavoring to match up what Kelso was saying with the words Captain Shaff and the others had managed to ferret out.

As the computer continued its frenetic analysis, Ross heard one Kelso's people, all of whom were still waiting down at the far end of the conference room, begin to chuckle. Before long, all three were laughing quite openly, leaving Ross at the very least curious as to exactly what it was that Kelso was saying as he spoke into the microphone.

Finally, just as Ross was beginning to resign himself to the idea that the little experiment in technical wizardry had failed, a decidedly electronic voice speaking clear, precise English began to emanate from the speakers mounted alongside the computer terminal.

"…clearly the Dean was not pleased to see the tiara we'd place upon the statue's head," uttered the electronic voice. "But since we were all standing there stark naked, we raced off across the campus before the police had a chance..."

Chuckling a bit himself as he quickly got the gist of what Kelso had apparently been saying all along, Commodore Ross was also surprised, indeed pleasantly so, that the translation computer actually seemed to be working.

For his part, at hearing the electronic voice emanating from the computer, Kelso paused, looking across at Ross questioningly.

"Is this working?" muttered Kelso via his new computerized surrogate.

Almost in unisons, all of the assembled officers and technicians around him nodded their heads.

Stepping closer, Ross slowly held out his hand, a second mic quickly being handed off to him as he sat down in a chair just opposite of Kelso.

"Yes, we understand you," muttered Ross. "Do you understand me?"

As the computer translated Ross' words into a similarly monotone computer voice, Kelso nodded.

"So," sighed Ross, settling back into his seat, mic in hand. "Where shall we begin?"

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions," replied Kelso evenly as he sat looking across to Ross.

"I certainly do," replied Ross simply.

It was then that Commodore Ross became keenly aware of just how much Captain Shaff, the officers and technicians were all but hovering in rapt expectation around Kelso and the computer.

Letting out a long, subtly annoyed sigh as he looked around at the somewhat dumbfounded group, Ross snapped his fingers to get their attention.

"Give us the room," said Ross evenly as the collective entourage looked over at him.

"Sir?" muttered Shaff, clearly surprised.

"I said everyone _out_," snapped Ross firmly. "_Now_."

"Commodore, I respectfully request permission…," began Shaff, his voice trailing off as he looked down in the Ross' somewhat dour expression.

"Captain, I appreciate your desire to be here," said Ross evenly as he looked back over at the officers who'd worked so hard to aid in the translation effort. "And believe me, I fully intend to recommend each of you for commendations for your efforts the moment we return to Earth. But, right now, I need to get some answers, and I'd like to get them without anyone gawking over my shoulder."

Prodded by the firm tone of Ross's voice, clearly displeased at being ushered out, but nevertheless compliant, Captain Shaff and the cluster of officers and technicians began quickly filing out the entryway.

As the hatch slowly closed behind the last of Ross' people, the Commodore took a deep, calming breath as he turned back to Kelso.

Leaning back into his chair, Ross once more lifted the mic to his lips.

"It would be an understatement to say I have a few questions, Mister Kelso," began Ross evenly.

"Commander, actually," grinned Kelso. "Commander Sean Kelso, Commanding Officer, Colonial Warstar _Galactica_."

With that, Kelso slowly reached his hand out towards Ross.

"Commodore Glenn van Ross," began Ross as he clasped firmly onto the hand of what he now firmly understood to be his counterpart. "Commanding Officer, United States Naval Carrier _Saratoga_."

"On behalf of myself, and my crew, let me say, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Commodore Ross," continued Kelso as he motioned his head down towards the three at the far end. "Let me introduce Captain Jordan Gaines, CO of _Galactica_'s Marine detachment, Lieutenant Kimberly Cetina and Ensign Hanna Petrovich, members of our aircraft wing."

"Welcome aboard," muttered Ross as he nodded to them.

"Now, the questions you have," smiled Kelso as he casually leaned back in his seat. "Where would you like to start?"


	6. Collision Course

**USS **_**Lexington  
><strong>_**United States Naval Space Carrier – SCVN-2806  
>US 12th Fleet – United Nations International Forces (UN IFOR)<strong>

With the red emergency lights overhead casting eerie shadows around the unusually quiet bridge, Commodore Bob Cassel let out a long, tired sigh as he slowly paced small circles around the area.

"Time?"

"Six hours, twenty-two minutes, sir," replied Ensign Owen, the all-too young officer at the LIDAR station, coughing slightly as she cleared her throat.

"Scope?"

"Chigs are still holding their position, sir," continued Owen, her tone heavy with fatigue.

Then, as if to punctuate the already nerve-racking situation, there was a dull thud that reverberated through the bulkheads around them.

Pausing mid-step, Cassel glanced around, held his breath for a moment, then continued on with his pacing.

No doubt the thud had simply been a chunk of debris from the comet _Lexington_ was shadowing.

Well, 'shadowing' wasn't quite accurate.

More like 'hiding behind'.

The long stream of particles in the comet's tail was currently masking the presence of his fleet from detection by the Chigs.

Fleet; the designation hardly seemed appropriate anymore.

Following an aborted attempt to break through to IFOR units trapped on Ixion, the Twelfth Fleet, his fleet, had become trapped in a relentless and exhausting game of cat-and-mouse with the Chigs. Helpless to do much more than staunch the proverbial bleeding, Commodore Bob Cassel had watched his once twenty-four ship strong task force get whittled down by the enemy over the last several months to a mere three ships.

_Lexington_, by far the most overall combat capable ship left to him, had herself suffered repeated and crippling damage at the hands of the enemy. Although her air wing was now but a shadow of what it had once been, the carrier nevertheless bore the responsibility for providing protection not only for herself but also her far more heavily damaged sistership, _Bunker Hill._

Itself now little more than a swiss-cheesed hulk, _Bunker Hill_ still had life support and engines, but not much else. While it could be argued that Cassel would be within his rights as overall commander to order _Bunker Hill_ abandoned, the staunch Navy man that he was had not yet reached the point where he was willing to simply write the ship off so long as she could still sail under her own power.

The only other ship he had left in field was the _Strasbourg_, a French cruiser. While the _Strasbourg_ had by every measure acquitted herself admirably in combat these last several months, arguably if not definitively dispelling the still-persistent stereotypes regarding French combat prowess and bravery, the plain, hard facts of the situation had Cassel outnumbered, outgunned and outclassed.

While it was clear that the Chigs were not conscious of, or were at least feigning ignorance to the presence of the Earth ships tucked in behind the tumbling ball of ice, the fact that they had twelve battleships, about two dozen destroyers and several squadrons of fighters arrayed in the area meant that they were at the very least aware that the gutted remnants of the Twelfth Fleet was hiding somewhere in the system.

And like ravenous wolves in waiting, they continued to linger.

That they hadn't yet discovered the daring ISSCV crew loitering about outside the scattering effect of the comet's tail, relaying the LIDAR data to the emissions darkened _Lexington_, was little short of miraculous.

But even small miracles aside, Cassel knew that his ships, his people, were running out of time and options. With only about two more weeks worth of fuel left before they were dead in the water, Cassel was growing desperate for a safe port, some place where his ships might have some opportunity to find respite.

Looking once more over at the clock on the wall, Commodore Bob Cassel let out a clipped, frustrated snort; he could almost swear it had just ticked _backwards_ a second or two.

Removing his cover, Cassel gave it a gentle toss over onto the situation table.

"Alright, people," he began, his voice echoing somewhat off the bulkheads of the confined bridge. "Now's the time for some creative thinking; any ideas?"

Slowly looking from face to face, Cassel searched the eyes of his crew, gauged their reactions, looking for some hint, some indication that someone might have an idea.

Even a bad idea might prompt a viable solution.

But from the way silence continued to dominate, Cassel began to resign himself to the fact that after so many months of exhaustive battle, most every option, from the consummate text-book to the insanely audacious had likewise been exhausted.

Perhaps their luck had simply run out.

Slowly making his way to the situation table, Commodore Cassel reached out to retrieve his cover.

It was as his hand closed to within barely an inch of the cover that a low signal alarm began to sound through the silent bridge.

"Report," snapped Cassel, slowly lifting his cover back into place.

Even before he heard an answer, Cassel began to brace himself for any number of possibilities; the Chigs had bullseyed the ISSCV, the Chigs had bullseyed _Lexington_ herself, a bulkhead had ruptured and was venting the last of their fuel into space, any number of worst-case scenarios.

What he was not prepared for was the response he actually received.

"Sir, flash traffic from our ISSCV; they're picking up comm-traffic on the IFOR VHF bands," called Lieutenant Barrera.

Instantly, two thoughts flashed through Cassel's mind.

The Chigs were trying to lure his ships out with false radio traffic, or, somewhere close by was another IFOR fleet.

But which was it; hoax or help?

"What is the nature of the comm-traffic, Lieutenant Barrera?" asked Cassel as he slowly made his way over to the railing.

"They're having trouble sorting through it, sir," replied Barrera as he pressed his headset tight to his ear. "Multiple units overlapping, sounds like they're heavily engaged, but it could be the Fifteenth Fleet."

"The Fifteenth?" muttered Cassel, chewing on his lip slightly. "That's Commodore Ross' fleet."

Cassel knew Ross personally; the man was by every measure a true fighting sailor who'd risen through the ranks by merit alone. Even though Cassel's ships had been trapped for a very long time deep inside the enemy's front yard, they had nevertheless been able to catch the occasional message from IFOR command that indicated the Fifteenth had been given the Herculean task of delaying the Chigs while the bulk of IFOR retreated back to Sol, so it was very much possible that the traffic was genuine.

But at the same time, the Fifteenth Fleet was also renowned enough that it still wasn't outside the realm of possibility that it was all just a Chig ruse.

He needed something definitive.

"Can we triangulate the origin of the transmissions, Lieutenant?"

"ISSCV reports they are attempting to do so now, sir," replied Barrera.

Slowly nodding his head, Cassel made his way back over to the situation table, leaning in over it as he glanced absently at a chart of the local region.

Within moments, Lieutenant Barrera appeared at Cassel's side, a slip of paper in hand.

"Where?" muttered Cassel simply as he handed a grease pencil to Barrera.

Looking down at the slip of paper in his hand, Barrera reached out across the chart and made a simple 'x', indicating the origin of the radio signals being picked up by the ISSCV.

Again, his spirits were buoyed.

The signals were coming from an area not too distant from the _Lexington_'s position, but more importantly, the signals were clearly not coming from the Chig fleet loitering nearby.

"The signals have been triangulated to this region, sir," began Barrera, letting out a small sigh as he set the grease pencil down on the tabletop. "To be honest, sir, I'm inclined to believe they're genuine."

"Why's that, Lieutenant?"

"We're actually picking up three separate sets of transmissions in that region, Commodore," replied Barrera, scratching the back of his neck as he handed another slip of paper over to Cassel. "One set is clearly on IFOR channels usually tasked to Fifteenth Fleet operations. The second set of transmissions are firmly within the bandwidths normally utilized by the Chigs."

"And the third set?"

"Unknown, sir," sighed Barrera. "They're coherent signals, definitely modulated so they're not natural or some errant background noise, but they're also not in a VHF range usually used by either IFOR or the Chigs."

"Silicates?"

"Possible, sir," shrugged Barrera. "Still, it would be unusual for them to be using these frequencies. But whatever is happening out there, it sounds like the Fifteenth is in a hell-of-a fight."

"Damn," sighed Cassel as he glared down at the simple mark on the chart.

Cassel had been hoping he might be able to make contact with Commodore Ross and request his assistance in extricating his remaining ships from under the menacing threat of the loitering Chig fleet.

But if Ross was already heavily engaged himself then the chances they'd be able to lend him any help were not that good.

Still, it did serve to somewhat ameliorate the sense of isolation he'd been feeling only a few short minutes ago to know that Ross and his people were out there.

At least they knew they weren't alone.

"I want to listen to those transmissions myself, Lieutenant," muttered Cassel as he glanced over at Barrera.

"Aye, sir," replied Barrera dutifully as he turned and made his way back over to the comm-station.

Stepping over to the railing, Cassel leaned against it as Barrera quickly toggled several switches that immediately piped the radio signals to the overhead speakers.

With the undeniable din and vocal terror of combat erupting through the speakers overhead, Cassel fought to suppress the sudden shiver that shot up his spine. All too aware that he was literally eavesdropping onto those terrified, even sacred last moments of many good men and women, Cassel wrestled to reconcile the instinctual rage he felt welling up in him with the factual impotence of his own situation.

Hell, even if the _Lexington_ and her compatriots were able to slip away unmolested by the Chigs loitering nearby, there would be precious damned little they'd be able to do to assist Commodore Ross' people. Gutted as she was, _Bunker Hill _alone would have been little more than a mobile target for the Chigs to take pot shots at.

But as he continued to listen, to grapple with his frustrated sense of helplessness, Cassel realized that although the transmissions were becoming garbled amid static, the nature, the tone, the very sound of the voices filtering in overhead had changed. The fight continued to rage on, but it was clear that something had apparently tipped the status quo decidedly against the Chigs.

It was then, frustratingly, that the transmissions cut out completely.

"What the hell happened to the signal, Lieutenant Barrera?" barked Cassel.

"Interference, sir," replied Barrera instantly. "My guess is that there's been a marked spike in the regional radiation levels; it's drowning out the transmissions."

"Can you clear it up?"

"Not without establishing a firm radio link directly to the Fifteenth Fleet, no, sir," answered Barrera, shaking his head slightly as he continued in vain to adjust the controls on his console. "And if we try to establish one…"

"It would be like sending up a flare to those Chigs out there," sighed Cassel, thumping his clenched fist lightly against the rail.

"Yes, sir."

Shaking his head, Cassel simply stood there for a moment, listening to the frustrating static that was now filtering in over the speakers before giving Barrera a curt signal to cut off the overhead.

That the radio transmissions themselves had been cut off was exasperating enough, but the fact that they'd been drowned out by a sudden flood of radiation in the area sent up a flag in Cassel's mind; that much radiation meant that a lot of ships, capital ships, were being outright destroyed in the battle. Whether they were IFOR ships or Chigs was simply another unanswered question.

It was then that another thought rippled its way though his mind.

Distance…

"Lieutenant, do we have a time index for when those transmissions were sent?"

"Uh, one moment, sir," sputtered Barrera.

While he waited for his answer, Cassel slowly made his way back over to the chart lying on the situation table. Looking down at the marks Barrera had made on the chart, Cassel tried to eyeball the approximate distance as he waited for the 'official' answer.

At that distance, it had to be about…

"Transmissions were sent out a little over an hour ago, sir," called Barrera.

Over an hour…

Conservatively, about five and a half hours away travel time after factoring in the need to conserve fuel as much as possible.

Doable, provided the Chigs weren't able to chase them down first.

But how to get away?

Letting out another in what now seemed to be an endless series of frustrated sighs, Cassel tried to puzzle through the problem.

But wait, why would the Fifteenth Fleet be operating this far away from her original operational theater? Ross was not the kind of man who did anything without a purpose.

"Nav, is this chart the only one we have of this region?" snapped Cassel at stood staring down at the austerely labeled overlay.

Barely a moment later, a Petty Officer, Cassel had to pause and look at the man's nametag to remember his name, Baxter, stepped up and unrolled another chart that the Commodore was pleased to see was much more detailed.

Lining it up over the first chart, Cassel watched as the mark made by Barrera indicating the location of the battle lined up with a labeled feature on the second chart; the Banū Mūsā Wormhole.

"Damn," growled Cassel as he looked up and all but glared over at Petty Officer Baxter. "Why the _hell_ wasn't _this_ chart out here in the first place?"

"Sir?" sputtered Baxter, his entire demeanor suddenly on the defensive.

"We passed through that area, right past that wormhole last week, Petty Officer," snapped Cassel, his voice booming out angrily around the bridge. "If we'd had _this_ chart out, we'd have known it was there and we could have been there and gone by now, with an extra week's worth of fuel for the rest of the trip back to Earth."

Shoving angrily at the two charts, nearly pushing them over the edge of the table, Cassel turned away, shaking his head, his frustrations percolating.

In a very real sense, it wasn't Baxter's fault the wrong chart had been out; the young man had only been thrust into the position of navigator a couple days ago when Lexington's actual nav officer, Lieutenant Savato, was critically injured. It was Savato who'd had out wrong chart, not Baxter.

Still, Cassel also knew that it was usually the simplest of stupid mistakes that got the most people killed in battle.

"I want everyone to listen up, and to listen good," he continued, looking out around at the exhausted faces around the _Lexington_'s bridge. "I know we've been through hell these last couple of months, been through hell during this entire _war_, but that _doesn't_ mean I don't expect each and every one of you to still be at the tops of your game."

Shaking his head, Cassel let out a frustrated sigh as he returned his attention to the charts.

Perturbed as he was, though, at least now he knew why Ross had his fleet operating in that area.

More importantly, perhaps, Cassel could start trying to formulate an escape for his fleet from under the imposing nose of the Chig fleet; an effort that could now be firmly focused on the goal of reaching the Banū Mūsā Wormhole as well.

In spite of having this new goal in mind, however, the other facts of his fleet's situation stubbornly refused to change; as long as the Chigs continued to hold their position, escape was still impossible.

His eyes almost perpetually locked on the LIDAR, Commodore Cassel just continued to pace, like a caged tiger. Nearby, the unassailable Chig fleet obstinately maintained its position, preventing Cassel from extricating his ships from their hiding place behind the comet.

But perhaps even more unnerving, there was no further radio traffic to indicate whether Ross and the Fifteenth Fleet had survived their engagement with the Chigs near Banū Mūsā.

Finally, Commodore Cassel tried to accept that, at least for the moment, all he could do was try and maintain focus on just puzzling out a way to get his ships away from their veritable prison behind the tumbling chunk of dirty ice.

They couldn't fight their way out; the Chigs would make short work of his battered ships.

Their only hope lay with the Chigs outright leaving the area.

Somehow, Cassel doubted the enemy would be so accommodating.

So it was, with this particularly frustrating status quo hanging over them that the collected bridge crew of _Lexington_ remained trapped in a waiting game for the next several hours.

Grateful at least for the warm cup of weak coffee delivered by a Yeoman, Cassel continued his tense vigil, hovering over the charts lying on the situation table.

As he tossed back the last gulp of his cooling coffee, Commodore Cassel suddenly heard a loud alert sound from the LIDAR station.

"Status," he choked, the last remnants of coffee slipping down the wrong tube at the last moment.

"Relay from ISSCV, sir," called Ensign Owen as she began almost frantically adjusting several controls at the LIDAR station. "They're picking up a large body of enemy fighters closing in."

"Reinforcements?" snapped Cassel as he quickly made his way over to the railing behind the LIDAR.

"No indication of enemy capital ships, sir," replied Owen, shaking her head slightly as the image did indeed show a large number of contacts entering range. "It could be an enemy patrol, Commodore."

Scowling slightly at the LIDAR display, Cassel began absently chewing on the inside of his lip.

"Extrapolate, Ensign; where did those fighters come from?"

"One moment, sir," replied Owens as she began rapidly punching commands into her console.

As he waited for the answer, Cassel continued to watch the newly arrived fighters close in, correcting their course towards the Chig fleet already in system.

"Comm, are we picking up any radio traffic from the Chigs?" snapped Cassel, his eyes not leaving the LIDAR.

"Marked increase in transmissions, sir, but they must be using a new encryption," began Lieutenant Barrera as he sat, his hand pressed against his earpiece as he continued to adjust controls on his console. "We can't listen in, Commodore."

Letting out a long, annoyed sigh, Commodore Cassel continued to watch as the newly arrived fighters linked up with the rest of the Chig fleet in system.

Then, almost as an afterthought, Cassel realized something was odd about the newly arrived craft, the way they were grouped up.

"Ensign Owen, have you been able to project back along the course of those fighters yet?" asked Cassel evenly. "Do we know where they came from?"

"Current projections don't show their course tracing back to any known enemy staging grounds, sir," replied Ensign Owens, shaking her head slightly as she continued to work at the LIDAR console. "I'm still back-tracking along their course though, sir."

As he continued to watch her work, noting the small screen's displayed course projection, Cassel felt a vague intuition give way to near certainty.

"Cross-ref the course projection with the last known position of the Fifteenth Fleet," began Cassel evenly as he began slowly making his way down around the railing closer to Ensign Owens.

"Course confirmed, sir," called Owens a moment later, no small measure of surprise in her voice. "How did you know…?"

"Those fighters aren't flying in their typical formations," began Cassel as his eyes continued to take in the data on LIDAR.

Then, curiously, Cassel began to smile broadly.

"They have some wounded birds out there," said Cassel, shaking his head slightly, clearly pleased. "And no capital ships in accompaniment; damn, Ross must have really kicked the crap out of them."

Then, even before the last of the newly arrived fighters had completed linking up with the larger Chig fleet, the entire formation suddenly surged forward, changing course and accelerating away.

"Sir, the enemy fleet…" began Owens, looking up over her shoulder to see Cassel waving her off slightly.

"I see it," he muttered.

Try as he might, Commodore Cassel couldn't help but feel a touch cynical as he watched the Chig fleet begin to move away.

While the departure of the Chig fleet meant that his own ships would now be able to slip back out from hiding behind the comet, perhaps even allow them to begin making headway towards a real escape route back to Sol, it also meant that Commodore Ross and his people, likely still licking their wounds from their most recent bout, would soon have a world of hurt drop back in upon their heads.

In apparently fighting off the enemy near the Banū Mūsā wormhole, Commodore Ross had stirred up another hornet's nest, inciting _this_ Chig fleet into pursuit.

"Orders, sir?" prodded Lieutenant Barrera as he stepped up beside Commodore Cassel.

Taking in a deep breath, Cassel continued to watch as the Chig fleet, including the errant enemy fighters that had just arrived, continued to move off. Crossing his arms, Cassel glanced back over his shoulder at the clock on the wall.

"Advise the ISSCV to maintain their position outside the comet's tail," muttered Cassel as he turned back to the LIDAR. "As soon as the enemy fleet has passed out of the system, we'll pull ourselves back out into clear space."

Turning fast on his heels, Commodore Cassel began making his way quickly back over to the situation table, Barrera in tow.

"As soon as we're clear of the comet, I want our CAP back in the air in case the enemy left any stragglers behind as a rear guard," continued Cassel as he reached over and pulled the chart overlay closer. "While we plot ourselves a wide course to Banū Mūsā, I want to establish a hard link to the _Saratoga_."

"Sir, if we do that, the Chigs will know where we are," interjected Barrera. "What if they double back?"

"However indirect it was, Commodore Ross' engagement bought us the breathing room we need to make our escape, Lieutenant," began Cassel as he looked Barrera squarely in the eye. "Now the Chigs _may_ double back, but if the Fifteenth managed to take down one of their fleets, I'm betting the enemy will be out for blood and will hold course, and I'll be damned if I'll let that ton of bricks drop on Commodore Ross without giving him some kind of warning."

"Understood, Commodore," replied Barrera obediently.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Main Briefing**

With over three decades of service as a line officer, and more combat time than he'd ever care to remember under his belt, Commodore Glen van Ross had often been all too tempted to consider the possibility that there was little left in this corporeal life that would truly shock him.

Even changes in the fortunes of war were sometimes met by him with something more akin to nonchalance than surprise.

But as he sat there now, looking across at the man named Commander Sean Kelso, the man's admittedly truncated story complete, Commodore Glen van Ross was truly and unequivocally speechless.

Over the last three hours, Kelso had recounted a story of such breadth and detail that even Ross' most deeply ingrained impulses to doubt or dismiss it were utterly disarmed.

And yet, in the same moment, everything that Ross knew, about his own planet, about his own civilization seemed to cry out how utterly _impossible_ everything Kelso was saying to him was.

An obliterated sister civilization of humans, thousands of light-years far removed from Earth…

A distant, common ancestral civilization on yet another planet, but still, _not_ Earth…

A race of maniacal machines stalking the stars, whose genocidal atrocities would seem to make his own world's battle with the Silicates look like little more than a schoolyard brawl…

Leaning back heavily in his seat as Kelso finished answering his most recent question, Ross reached up, removed his cover, ran his hand through his short, graying hair, and let out a long sigh.

"Is there anything else you would like to ask?" asked Kelso, the synthesized voice from the computer only adding to the surrealism of the moment for Ross.

"To be honest, I wouldn't know where to begin, Commander," replied Ross evenly as he looked back into the eyes of his counterpart. "I am frankly having a hard time believing anything you've told me already. Your history, your origins; it flies in the face of everything our people have discovered and learned, centuries of archeology, history; there is absolutely no evidence to even hint that humanity _originated_ on another world as you suggest."

"I'm afraid I don't have any answers to give you except those that I already have, Commodore Ross," said Kelso evenly. "Since I am not familiar with the history and archeology of Earth, I cannot explain any of the discrepancies you have in mind."

"This is not about 'discrepancies', Commander," snapped Ross, a touch of anger unintentionally slipping into his tone. "This about undeniable genetic _proof_; fossil records dating back over hundreds of millennia; the complete mapping of our genome; we _originated_ on Earth."

"Again, I'm not about to debate what your society teaches or what your scholars believe, Commodore," continued Kelso. "All I can tell you is what I know, what _our_ history tells us of a common ancestry on the planet Kobol, about how a tribe from that world left there almost four thousand years ago to settle on your world."

For a moment, an apprehensive, uneasy quiet settled in over them.

At the far end of the room, Captain Gaines, Lieutenant Cetina and Ensign Petrovich all sat, shifting somewhat uncomfortably at the tense silence between Ross and Kelso.

Finally, letting out a long sigh, Commander Sean Kelso leaned in closer to Commodore Ross.

"Commodore Ross, you strike me as a pragmatic man so I am going to be up front with you," began Kelso, his tone, even through the translator, almost insistent. "I'm not here to rewrite your history. I am here for one reason and one reason alone."

Pausing, Kelso pointed towards the far bulkhead, ostensibly, towards the endless sea of stars outside the hull of the _Saratoga_.

"Out there, I have a fleet…"

"If you are attempting to intimidate me, sir…"

Instantly, Kelso began to shake his head.

"No, Commodore, I'm not trying to intimidate you," sighed Kelso, leaning in still more. "I'm actually here to ask for your help."

"My help?" scoffed Ross, the memory of Commander Kelso's lone ship wading through the Chig fleet with seemingly little effort very much at the forefront of his mind.

"Yes, Commodore Ross, your _help_," continued Kelso, nodding his head slightly. "Aboard the other ships in my fleet are roughly fifty thousand people, almost twenty-seven thousand of whom are civilians; _refugees_."

With Ross still looking across at him, his expression uncertain, unreadable, Commander Kelso slowly leaned back in his seat.

"The Cylon attack utterly destroyed our civilization; our home worlds are _gone_," continued Kelso, his tone growing somewhat somber. "Nearly thirty _billion_ people are dead. Those people out there, huddled, scared, may be all that remains of our _entire_ civilization. What I need from you, what I'm _asking_ for, is a refuge, a new home for them."

"I'm not in _any_ position to negotiate such a thing," muttered Ross, shaking his head as he began to more fully understand the full weight of what Kelso was proposing. "We're in the middle of a war, even if what you propose were possible…"

"I'm afraid I must insist that we try," replied Kelso instantly. "I understand if you do not have the authority to grant my people asylum, but I do need your help getting in contact with those who _would_ be able to negotiate such a settlement."

Taking another deep breath, Kelso glanced over at Gaines.

Gently, she nodded.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Commodore," continued Kelso, at last turning back to Ross. "We have fourteen months, maybe less, before our people begin to starve."

"I don't understand," muttered Ross, shaking his head slightly. "Your ship…"

"My ship wasn't in full service when the attack began, Commodore," sighed Kelso. "What supplies we have were salvaged from the hulks of ships destroyed by the Cylons; most of the people we rescued have little more than whatever clothes they happened to have on their backs when the attack happened."

It was a subtle change, but as Kelso looked across at Ross, he saw the weathered warrior's features soften, if ever so slightly.

"You must understand the magnitude of what you are proposing, Commander," muttered Ross evenly. "You'd be asking a world that right now is threatened with the very real possibility of invasion by an alien race, a world already burdened with nearly twelve billion of its own inhabitants, to absorb over fifty-thousand refugees. Never mind the social, political or, God help me, the _religious_ implications of your existence; the sheer logistical…"

"I understand there will be difficulties," interjected Kelso flatly. "But I'm afraid I simply don't have a choice; for the sake of our survivors, I _have_ to try."

Letting out another long sigh, Kelso watched as Ross looked away, his expression somewhat distant as he wrestled with whatever thoughts held him in sway, shaking his head slightly.

"Commodore Ross," began Kelso as he looked earnestly across to Ross. "I'm asking, as one commander to another; will you help us?"

Looking back over at Kelso, Ross let out a long sigh.

As he opened his mouth, ready to once more launch back into what was quickly becoming a circuitous conversation, Commodore Ross heard a loud thump on the hatch.

Letting out an annoyed huff, Ross simply sat looking across at Kelso.

"Enter!" he snapped.

Instantly, the entryway opened and a small entourage of personnel stepped inside.

"I gave instructions we were not to be interrupted," muttered Ross, turning his head only enough for his voice to echo back over his shoulder at the personnel who'd entered.

"I'm sorry, Commodore, but we have an urgent update," replied Lieutenant Price as she stepped in, her fingers fidgeting a bit on the clipboard she held.

Letting out another annoyed huff, Ross turned and looked over at the small group.

"What is it?"

"Sir, we just received a communiqué from the carrier _Lexington_," began Price as she quickly stepped over to the conference table, taking a rolled up chart offered to her by one of the others who'd also entered, unrolling it onto the table.

Prompted as much by the revelation that the _Lexington_, long thought lost by IFOR command, was in fact still intact, Ross practically leapt up from the seat and made his way over to the table.

"What does the communiqué say, Lieutenant Price?" snapped Ross as he looked down at the overlay.

"Not much, Commodore," sighed Price as she handed Ross the clipboard she entered with, the communiqué lying on top of the small stack of pages attached to it. "Commodore Cassel reports a Chig fleet has changed course and is moving towards our position, ETA approximately three hours."

"What about his ships, where's the rest of the Twelfth Fleet?" muttered Ross as he began scanning down through the sparse message printed on the page.

"No information, sir," replied Lieutenant Price evenly.

"What about the Chig fleet, does the communiqué indicate the enemy's strength?"

"Twelve capital ships, times two destroyers and several accompanying fighter squadrons, sir," replied Price as she reached over and flipped the page for the Commodore. "It would seem that the fighters that survived _our_ engagement here managed to link up with another fleet that was hunting for the _Lexington_."

Glancing over at the clock on the wall, Commodore Ross let out a long sigh.

His people had been working overtime to try and patch up the damage to _Saratoga_ and the fleet, but they were still in no shape for another standup fight with the Chigs. Worse still, the Banū Mūsā wormhole wouldn't be opening for another forty-three hours, so they couldn't just duck away from the fight.

With the information now in hand, Commodore Glen van Ross was faced with two stark choices; they'd either have to fight, and likely be destroyed, or they'd have flee back off into space knowing full well they no longer had the fuel to reach another wormhole.

With the second hand continuing its relentless march around the clock face, Ross' mind continued to race, puzzling through the facts, figures and harsh realities that were flashing through his mind, knowing that with each maddening advance of the clock hand, another Chig fleet was that much closer to his battered ships.

"Did the _Lexington_'s transmission indicate she was en route to our location?" asked Ross as he glanced over at Lieutenant Price.

If Bob Cassel was bringing his ships to Banū Mūsā as well, then Ross could hold out at least a thin hope that the extra firepower might be enough.

"Affirmative, sir," replied Price evenly, her tone far more muted than Ross might have hoped. "But they won't reach us for another _five_ hours."

"Chigs will already have arrived by then," sighed Ross as he looked back down at the chart.

While he would never have even thought of uttering such openly, all Ross could think of was the distinct possibility that the _Lexington_ would arrive, five hours hence, only to find the _Saratoga_ and the rest of the Fifteenth Fleet pummeled to debris.

"How many alien ships are coming, Commodore?"

Surprised, as much by the sudden sound of the computerized voice as by the none-too-subtle reminder that Kelso and his people were still in the room, Commodore Ross looked up.

With a slow motion, Commander Kelso withdrew his hand from the volume control on the translator computer and then motioned up at the headset Ross still wore, indicating that at least some of the conversation he'd been having with Lieutenant Price had been translated sufficiently for Kelso to understand there was a new threat bearing down on them.

Looking over into the eyes of his counterpart, Ross straightened back up.

"From the looks of it, twelve capital ships, at least two dozen destroyers, and several hundred fighters," replied Ross flatly, his eyes watching, reading Kelso's expression. "They'll be here in three hours."

Taking a deep breath, Ross hesitated, looking absently back down at the chart unrolled by Lieutenant Price.

"And we don't have sufficient firepower to fight them off," he finally added, his tone punctuated by a long, almost resigned sigh.

"And you can't leave because you need to wait for this 'wormhole' of yours to open in order to make it back to Earth," added Kelso, gently nodding his head in understanding. "I see your dilemma."

It was then, as the man stood up and stepped up to the conference table in order to look at the chart before Ross that Kelso said something that surprised the Commodore as much as anything else he'd said over the last three hours.

"I'll have my Executive Officer put _Galactica_ and our air wing on alert," he began as he leaned in over the chart. "We'll also send up a few recon Raptors to try and get a firm fix on the alien fleet's current location."

Looking over at Kelso, Ross was utterly taken aback.

"Are you saying you're willing to help us fight off the Chig fleet?" asked Ross, his tone outright surprised.

Looking over at Ross, into the man's clearly questioning eyes, Commander Sean Kelso grinned.

"You need this 'wormhole' to get back to Earth," began Kelso, his tone, even through the translator computer, almost nonchalant. "And you said it yourself, your fleet is in no shape to stand a toe-to-toe with them; we still are."

With his mind all but reeling, Ross stood there, speechless; over the course of the war he had grown so jaded, so used to fighting through situations on his own, he hadn't even _considered_ the possibility that Kelso would be willing to continue defending his fleet.

"But you understand, Commander, the enemy fighters that got away last time will have warned this fleet of your presence," said Ross evenly, still watching for any change, any hesitation in Kelso. "This might not be as easy as the last battle."

Still grinning slightly, Kelso glanced back down at the chart as he motioned for Gaines to step over from the far end of the conference table.

"Since we've only really just met, Commodore Ross, you'll excuse me if I seem particularly blunt," began Commander Kelso as Gaines stepped up beside him. "I don't make rash decisions, and I don't run from the choices I make just because things get difficult."

Looking back up at Ross, Kelso's grin faded, his expression becoming one of resolve.

"I made a choice to bring _Galactica_ into this fight, and I stand by that decision," he continued. "It was the _right_ decision. Politics, religion, social order, everything that concerns you about my people reaching Earth, it's all crap in the face of one simple truth; right here, right now, human lives are at risk. _Galactica_ was built to defend human lives, and with your permission, that is what she will do."

For a moment, Kelso's statement hung in the air between him and Ross. So firmly, so matter-of-factly had his counterpart spoken that Commodore Glen van Ross could only think to respond in an equally forthright fashion.

Slowly, deliberately, Ross removed his cover, then reached out across the conference table to Kelso.

Seeing this, Kelso likewise reached out with his hand.

And as the two men clasped hands and exchanged a firm handshake, Ross held Kelso's gaze.

For a moment, neither said a word.

Simple, and yet profound.

For Ross, that one handshake served to do the one thing he'd wanted most of all since _Galactica_ had first arrived; it made him _believe_.

"Thank you," said Ross simply.

With the slightest of nods from Kelso, the two men, two commanders, returned their attention to the chart before them.

"Since you know the enemy better than we do, I'd appreciate your suggestions," said Kelso as Ross slowly slid his cover back into place.

"To be honest, I'm not sure where to begin," grinned Ross as he again flipped through the pages attached to the clipboard Lieutenant Price had given him. "Do _you_ have any suggestions?"

"First off, I think it would be best to bring the rest of my fleet here," began Commander Kelso evenly as he continued to study the chart.

"Consolidate our fleets in one area?" asked Ross, nodding slightly. "I guess I can understand your desire to keep a close eye of those civilian refugees you spoke of. If we brought them here, I'd also be able deploy my ships around them for additional protection."

"I'd appreciate that," continued Kelso. "But bringing my fleet here also introduces two additional factors in our favor."

"What factors?"

"The aliens might know about _Galactica_, but they _don't_ know about the rest of my fleet," replied Kelso, exchanging a somewhat mischievous glance with a grinning Gaines. "It would probably go a long way towards taking the heart out their fight if the aliens arrive and find a hell-of-a-lot more ships here than they were expecting."

"It might indeed," grinned Ross as he looked over at Kelso. "But you said there were _two_ advantages; what's the other?"

His grin now spreading an almost ear-to-ear, Kelso looked up and met Ross' gaze.

"_Galactica_ is not the only ship in my fleet that's armed."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Lexington  
><strong>_**Bridge**

As he stood looking down at the brief reply they'd just received from the _Saratoga_ to their warning, Commodore Bob Cassel had just one thought; either Commodore Ross is abundantly confident, or he has lost his mind.

"Message acknowledged, will be ready when they arrive, continue on course to rendezvous; God's speed, my friend," muttered Cassel, reading the full content of the reply as he gently shook his head.

"What does it mean, Commodore?" asked Lieutenant Barrera evenly as he stood beside the Commodore.

"Unless I miss my guess, it means Commodore Ross has something up his sleeve but doesn't want to risk tipping his hand by telling us what it is," replied Cassel evenly as he scanned through the message again, as if by that alone he'd be able to glean more information from it.

Finally, letting out a long sigh, Cassel handed the message back to Lieutenant Barrera.

"How long till we reach the rendezvous at Banū Mūsā?"

"At current speed, we will reach the rendezvous in approximately four hours, Commodore," replied Petty Officer Baxter as he stood, his attention all but enslaved to the chart spread out before him.

Ever since he'd been little more than saddled with being the ad hoc navigational officer of the _Lexington_, Baxter had been almost franticly learning a job normally reserved for a commissioned officer, typically one with far more experience and seasoning.

And then, adding stress upon an already ample level of anxiety, Cassel had chewed the young man out for making what was in reality an understandable mistake with the charts. Having exchanged frenzied diligence for now near-obsessive attention to detail, Cassel could tell Petty Officer Baxter was rapidly pushing himself towards a complete burnout.

Stepping over towards Baxter, the young man did not even notice the Commodore's approach until Cassel literally reached out and placed his hand on the young man's shoulder, immediately eliciting a slight startle.

As the young man relaxed, though only barely, Cassel gave Baxter the gentlest of pats.

"You're doing a good job, Petty Officer," said Commodore Cassel evenly.

"Just trying to get us home, sir," replied Baxter as he looked back down at the calculations he'd scribbled on the chart.

Looking over at Baxter, Cassel noted the extreme attention and concentration on the man's face, the stern gaze of resolve, the determined look in his eyes that seemed a contradiction when compared to his obvious youth.

"Mind if I ask why you joined the Navy, Baxter?" asked Cassel casually as he too looked down at the chart, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Hesitating, Baxter's entire body visually tensed.

"My sister, sir," he finally replied, his voice decidedly somber. "She was aboard the _Yorktown_."

Letting out a long sigh, Cassel looked back over at the young man; hearing the name _Yorktown_ was all he'd needed to hear to understand Baxter's resolve.

The carrier _Yorktown_ had fought a valiant if ultimately futile battle with the Chigs in orbit around Earth early in the war. The very definition of a vicious fight, the Chig assault had been merciless even by the enemy's standards. Cut-off from the rest of the fleet, _Yorktown_ had taken enough hits that her entire engineering section was all-but ripped from the rest of the hull, dropping the powerless ship into a decaying orbit. With the _Kiev_ and _Clemenceau_ too heavily engaged to assist and most of her own air wing, including the once-renowned Angry Angels, all but shattered, the _Yorktown_'s CO had ordered all hands to abandon ship in the midst of the Chig assault.

But even though the _Yorktown_ herself was now a non-factor in the battle, the Chigs had bestowed absolutely no mercy upon the hundreds of her surviving crew. With their fighter formations swarming in over _Yorktown_'s vulnerable lifeboats, the bastards had all but slaughtered the helpless men and women as they struggled to escape.

The only reason the war hadn't ended then and there with Earth's utter defeat and occupation was the rapid redeployment of the Japanese Defense Force contingent from the far side of the planet.

Although they arrived too late to prevent the butchering of _Yorktown_'s crew, the JDF Task Force, with nothing short of a heroic effort, executed a brilliant deep flaking maneuver around the moon and managed to drive off the Chigs, removing the immediate threat to Earth.

The battle over, efforts began that saved the battered hulk of the _Yorktown_ from falling out of orbit. Although she was salvaged and eventually put back into service her name became as indelibly synonymous with Chig brutality and savagery as Tellis and Vesta. Indeed, superstitious scuttlebutt throughout the fleet said there were in fact _two_ crews manning the recommissioned _Yorktown_; a living crew and a ghostly one made up of the restless souls of her slaughtered crew.

As Petty Officer Baxter slowly wrestled back control over whatever personal demons were passing through his thoughts at the memory of his dead sister, the young man slowly picked up his navigational tools and resumed his work on the chart.

Silent, all Commodore Cassel could think to do was give Baxter's shoulder one last, solemn pat.

He had barely taken another breath when an alarm suddenly sounded from the LIDAR console.

"Report!" he snapped instantly as he practically vaulted his way over to the railing behind LIDAR.

"Long-range LIDAR is picking up one enemy contact on an intercept vector, Commodore," replied Ensign Owens as she quickly adjusted the console's controls, zeroing in the contact. "Based on her signature cross-section, it looks like a lone enemy fighter and she appears damaged."

"Sound General Quarters," said Cassel evenly as he leaned in somewhat predatorily over the rail.

Even with the _Lexington_ in as bad a shape as she was and the _Bunker Hill_ worse off still, the idea that a lone enemy fighter would dare to attack was of welcome amusement to Commodore Bob Cassel.

Although aware of just how dark it seemed, he nevertheless took a measure of pleasure at the idea that the last thing the three brazen, perhaps even suicidally insane Chigs aboard the fighter would see were the bristling barrels of _Lexington_'s remaining weapons.

"Fore four-fifty has the enemy zeroed, ready to fire on your order, sir," called Chief Leahy as she reflexively adjusted the headphones draped over her head.

"The _Strasbourg_ reports they've maneuvered into a blocking position near _Bunker Hill_, Commodore," stated Lieutenant Barrera as he glanced back over at Commodore Cassel. "CAP is requesting instructions; do you want them to vector in for intercept?"

"Order the CAP to hold course," replied Cassel as he watched the lone enemy fighter continue to close in, clearly intent on making a firm intercept of the _Lexington_. "Advise the fore battery to commence fire when the target breaks fifty MSK's, Chief."

"Aye, sir," grinned Chief Leahy as she kept her resolved gaze on the panel.

His orders given, the bridge and everyone on it watched and waited as the Chig fighter raced in towards that imaginary line fifty kilometers out, an invisible tripwire that once crossed would bring a world of hurt down upon it.

"Sir, change in aspect on target," called Ensign Owen, cutting through the crisp tension. "Target appears to be slowing its approach."

"Lieutenant Barrera, advise the CAP to disregard my last, begin wide turn onto target," called Cassel as he watched the Chig fighter slow to a veritable stop. "Tell them to come in from target's high-three o'clock to stay clear of our line-of-fire, but ready for intercept."

"Aye, sir," nodded Barrera, instantly toggling the transmit button to relay the order.

"Target is holding at relative stop, distance one-zero-zero MSK's, Commodore," said Ensign Owens, wiping a newly formed bead of sweat from her brow.

"What the hell are they doing?" muttered Cassel, leaning in still further as he looked at the lone contact on LIDAR.

Why the _hell_ had it stopped?

Even at one hundred MSK's, the craft was still within range of _Lexington_'s guns, moreover, the crew of the craft had to know that. If this was some odd, lone-wolf attack mission, their best chance of inflicting _any_ damage lay with the craft's speed and maneuverability.

Was this _really_ some suicidal behavior on the part of the enemy crew?

Were they _really_ that intent on dying?

In a war that had already seen many strange twists and turns of fate, even something this odd stood out in Cassel's mind.

Suicide by carrier…

"Sir?" snapped Barrera, his hand suddenly clamping down over his earpiece as he slowly turned towards the Commodore. "You're not going to believe this, but that craft is transmitting a message to us."

"Let me guess," muttered Cassel, his eyes not leaving the LIDAR image. "They're Jehovah's Witnesses come to spread the Good Word."

"No, sir," replied Barrera, his tone indicating he'd either ignored or completely missed Cassel's sarcastic quip. "No voice, just rough Morse code."

Pausing, Barrera's hands snatched up a clipboard and pencil. Flipping over the lone page attached to the clipboard, Barrera's attention suddenly seemed to focus in on whatever signal was coming in over his headset as he quickly scribbled down a series of dots and dashes on the piece of paper.

Finally, his face contorted in utter bewilderment, Barrera stood up and stepped over to Cassel.

Looking over at the communications officer, the Commodore took hold of the clipboard as Barrera handed it to him.

"Just two words, sir, over and over," muttered Barrera, shaking his head slightly, clearly confused.

With a huffed breath, Commodore Cassel looked down at the page.

Just below each scribbled set of dots and dashes were two words; two simple, unexpected, _impossible_ words…

Surrender…

Asylum…

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" snapped Cassel as he scowled back over at the lone fighter on LIDAR.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

While in retrospect, Commodore Glen van Ross would be the first to admit he should have expected as much, the moment that Kelso's fleet 'jumped' in; that was the term they apparently used for their faster-than-light capability; the commander of IFOR's Fifteenth Fleet was no less surprised by the sheer size of the ships that appeared.

While none of the newly arrived ships came close to the matching the gargantuan proportions of Commander Kelso's flagship, _Galactica_, most of the ships still managed to dwarf most every vessel under Ross' command.

Even the smallest ships, ships Kelso himself explained as merely being civilian passenger liners pressed into service as refugee transports, were larger than some of the military vessels in Earth's arsenal.

And yet in spite of their size, Commodore Ross had to remind himself that none of the ships now falling into formation with his fleet were armed.

Hence the need for his ships to act as escort.

With his own carriers, cruisers and destroyers forming into a large, protective bubble around Kelso's civvies, Commodore Ross mused for a moment about just how far personal trust could carry a man when needed.

When he'd first advised the other skippers in his battered fleet of the plan to consolidate the Fifteenth with the remainder of Kelso's fleet, conspicuously avoiding mention of some of the more incredulous portions of the Commander's tale in the process, more than a few had expressed their ill-ease with the idea, some lightly, others quite vociferously.

Indeed, Ross had to admit that anyone looking at the situation from the outside might have nothing but valid reasons for questioning the wisdom of allowing such large, unknown vessels to take up formation with his fleet.

They might even have some validity in questioning Ross' willingness to so readily accept that Kelso was going to engage the enemy as planned with the full might and vigor at his disposal.

But in the here-and-now, trapped as his people were deep behind enemy lines, Ross also felt that anyone who might ask those questions with anything approaching a level of seriousness was likely back on Earth, and just as likely to have never stared down the barrel of an enemy weapon. As such, their opinions meant about as much to Commodore Glen van Ross as a two-week old pile of dog crap on the lawn.

If trusting Commander Kelso and taking his word at face value meant that Ross would get his ships, his people back to Earth safely, then trust him he would. And in the face of that logic, even the other skippers in his fleet, men and women who in the end had deferred to their own confidence in Ross' integrity and capabilities as a wartime leader, had acquiesced.

"All ships report perimeter established, Commodore," called Lieutenant Price evenly.

"Very well," muttered Ross as he slowly adjusted him cover. "Send to _Colin Powell_, away all fighters, all ships, stand-by for enemy contact."

With a deep breath of anticipation, Captain Nathan West kept his eyes firmly locked on his cockpit display as the module began to descend down the pit.

It had been nearly seven months since he'd been at the stick of a Hammerhead, but with the docs giving him a clear medical report and Boss Ross needing every qualified pilot in the air, rustling him up a plane had been the only hurdle to getting the last two Wildcards shuffled back into the deck.

As his cockpit indicators flashed to green, indicating a firm link-up between the cockpit module and the Hammerhead airframe, West took a hesitant breath, then throttled up the fighter, launching it clear of the hangar deck.

"_Toga_, this is King of Hearts," began West evenly as he slowly nosed the Hammerhead over towards the formation of fighters already aloft. "Departure vector is five-by-five, all systems nominal."

"_Copy that, King of Hearts_," replied the voice of _Saratoga_'s comm-officer. "_Link up with Jack of Spades at sixty-five MSK's; you are to assume picket duty at fleet's two o'clock high, remain on station and await further orders_."

"Copy that, _Saratoga_," replied West as he gently nudged his stick and throttles to catch up to Hawkes' plane.

As he continued to sail his plane towards the rendezvous point, Nathan West glanced off to his left, and with no small measure of amusement, noted the sheer difference in size between the unarmed vessels of Kelso's fleet, and the protective vanguard of the Fifteenth Fleet surrounding them.

Even unarmed, the larger vessels were an imposing enough sight that West reckoned that once the Chigs caught a LIDAR image of what was awaiting them, the best decision the enemy could make was to turn tail and run.

And if they didn't…

"Their mistake," muttered West, gently shaking his head, grinning a bit as he returned his attention to the LIDAR.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Raptors have been deployed and are taking up station per yours orders, Commander," said Major Burke as she set her handset back into place. "All ships report set at Condition One, ready to deploy via combat jump."

"Very good, Major," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he stood looking over the thick stack of communiqués that had been handed to him upon entering the CIC.

"Sorry for the backlog, sir," continued Burke as she watched him feverishly speed-reading the messages. "Most of them are simple housekeeping, requests for supplies and what-not from the civilian ships."

"Hadn't thought I was gone that long," grinned Kelso as he took the pen from his pocket and began quickly scribbling out his signature on several of the sheets.

Casting a watchful eye up at the DRADIS, a screen that to her eye was conspicuously missing the civilian ships themselves, Major Burke began gently shaking her head.

"Just because I'm reading doesn't mean I don't see that look on your face, Major," muttered Kelso evenly as he affixed his signature to yet another request. "What's on your mind?"

Hesitating for a moment, Burke looked across at the Commander, taking in a long, pensive breath.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Giving the Major a sidewise glance across the plot table, Commander Kelso gave her the slightest nod.

"Are you sure this is a wise idea, leaving the direct protection of our civilian ships in the hands of the Earth fleet?"

"Makes the most sense militarily, Major," began Kelso as he returned his attention to the pages. "Between our FTL drives and the lack of intel the enemy has on our presence…"

"I understand those points, Commander," huffed Major Burke, clearly making an effort to keep her voice low in spite of her clear frustration. "Still, leaving our civilian ships in their care does present them with an awfully enticing opportunity."

"Just what kind of 'opportunity' are you alluding to?" asked Kelso, once more glancing across the plot table to his XO.

"Well, since the Earth fleet doesn't possess FTL-jump technology, what if they decide to seize control of one of the civilian liners in order to get it?" offered Burke, fidgeting a bit. "It wouldn't take but a few soldiers to storm one of the ships."

"What would be gained by them doing something like that, Major?" asked Commander Kelso pointedly, setting the clipboard and pen down on the plot table as he looked directly across at her. "Even if they seized one of our ships, they wouldn't be able to fly her alone, and I sincerely doubt they have the ability to simply root-canal an FTL core out of the spaceframe."

"Still, sir, if they seized one of our ships, they'd be able to take it in tow."

"Maybe, but I don't think they'll do it," began Kelso evenly as he too glanced up at the DRADIS. "According to what Commodore Ross has told me Earth is in danger of losing this war."

"Only serves to prove my point, sir," interjected Burke flatly.

"No, it doesn't," countered Kelso instantly, shaking his head. "Commodore Ross assured me personally that he will defend our civilian ships as vigorously as though they were his own. Now you might not understand this, but I _trust_ Commodore Ross to be a man of his word."

"Trust?"

"Yes, Major Burke; trust," continued Kelso evenly. "To be perfectly clear, we're about to ask this man, his entire world, to offer our refugees a place, a new home. That is no _small_ favor."

Looking back across at Burke, Kelso made an effort to soften his demeanor.

As of late, he and his XO had been experiencing a lot of friction. Kelso had no doubt that in the end, Major Tyra Burke had the same goal in mind as he did; the welfare of the civilians under their protection. But what was also clear was that Burke, ever driven in her professional life, had problems with trust.

She hadn't initially, and perhaps still didn't, fully trust him.

If only they had a psychologist aboard for her to talk to…

"Major, I'm well aware of the risks here," continued Kelso evenly. "I can even understand if you still disagree with my initial decision to allow those alien fighters to leave, especially now since it appears they may have indeed been able to call in reinforcements…"

"No, sir," sighed Burke, bowing her head slightly. "I understand your reasons. I also understand your reasons for engaging in this alliance with the Earth fleet, no matter how ad hoc the arrangement."

"Then what's the problem, exactly?" asked Kelso.

"I guess I just find it hard to understand, after everything we've been through…"

"_How_ I could trust them?" interjected Kelso.

Burke simply nodded.

"Honestly?" muttered Kelso, looking once more back up at DRADIS. "I don't really know."

Unexpected as that answer was, Burke was taken somewhat aback.

"I can't explain it, Major, and I'm not even sure I'd want to be able to if I could," sighed Kelso, shrugging his shoulders. "And in the end, that's what real trust is. It doesn't need a reason; it doesn't really even need to be rational. We need a home, a new start; Commodore Ross, his fleet, all of Earth, they need…"

"Sir?" snapped Lieutenant Cortez.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" asked Commander Kelso as he looked over to Cortez.

"Report from Raptor Three-Six-Five, Commander," began Cortez evenly. "They've obtained a firm track on the alien fleet on long range DRADIS."

"Show me," snapped Kelso as he quickly made his way over to the large plot table.

As he stepped up to the table, a large chart of the region spread out across it, Lieutenant Cortez also stepped up, a grease pencil and slip of paper in hand.

Already displayed on the chart was all the information they had; the current position of the Earth fleet and their civilian ships, their own position and positions of the deployed recon Raptors, and a large, indistinct line showing the anticipated route of advance of the alien fleet.

Glancing down at the slip of paper in his hand, Cortez reached out with the grease pencil and made a simple mark on the chart.

"Based on the data relayed from _Saratoga_, this is well within the approach corridor they anticipated," stated Cortez evenly as he looked up at the Commander. "ETA is approximately thirty minutes to contact with the Earth fleet."

"Petty Officer Rocca, relay message to Commodore Ross that we have a fix on the alien fleet," called Commander Kelso as he continued to look over the chart.

"Aye, sir."

With the proven effectiveness of the Earth fleet's translation computer, Commodore Ross had ordered the device connected to his ship's communication systems for this joint operation. Although this setup meant that all communication between the Colonials and the Earth fleet would need to be relayed through the _Saratoga_, it seemed, or it was at least hoped to be, a workable situation.

A far cry better than relying on hands signals.

"Order Raptor Three-Six-Five to maintain contact with the alien fleet," continued Commander Kelso as he continued to mull the chart over. "Vector in a couple more Raptors to the area as well so we can get a firm idea of what we're dealing with. But make sure they understand, they are to shadow the enemy, but all units are to avoid engagement."

"Understood, Commander."

As Lieutenant Cortez turned and made his way back over to his station, Commander Kelso took one last look at the chart, let out a long sigh, then likewise began making his way back over to the main plot table.

As he settled back into place, his gaze immediately returning to the DRADIS overhead, Commander Kelso began gently drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

"I always hate this part," muttered Major Burke, her gaze likewise on the screens overhead.

"What; the waiting?" muttered Commander Kelso. "The anticipation of battle?"

"No, sir," she replied evenly, pointing over at his drumming fingers. "The part where you feel the compulsion to do _that_."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

As he paced around the periphery of the bridge for perhaps the thousandth time, Commodore Glen van Ross cast a scowl up at the clock on the wall.

According to the latest updates from _Galactica_'s reconnaissance craft, the Chig fleet would be entering LIDAR range any moment.

And as much as his conscious mind understood that Commander Kelso and his ships were out there lying in wait, ready to spring what was promising to be one hell-of-a surprise on the advancing enemy, Ross nevertheless keenly felt the pangs of baited anticipation.

When it was just his own ships at risk, Commodore Ross was already all-too-aware of the danger. But with his battered force now also tasked with the protection of tens of thousands of civilians, the danger was all the more magnified in Ross' thoughts.

What if Kelso and his people _weren't_ able to counter or contain the enemy advance?

What if the enemy managed to launch a fighter sortie that broke through the defense perimeter and struck the unarmed ships now under his protection?

Ross took that particular threat seriously because he himself had made a promise to Kelso to protect those civilians. It was a personal pledge, the kind Ross rarely made and never capriciously.

"Contact!" snapped Lieutenant Rosary. "Long range LIDAR contact, Commodore."

"Right on time," muttered Ross as he briskly made his way over to the railing behind the LIDAR console. "Number, and type, Lieutenant?"

"Tally, twelve enemy Battleships, times two Destroyers, multiple squadrons of fighters already in the air."

"And right where they should be," muttered Ross, gently tipping the bill of his cover forward as he focused his attention more fully on the LIDAR screen. "Any indication they've noticed the presence of the civilian ships?"

"They should have the Colonial refugee ships on their scopes by now, Commodore," began Lieutenant Rosary. "But if they're concerned about it, it's not showing; course and speed remain steady."

"Oh, they've noticed, sir," interjected Lieutenant Price, her voice interrupted by the slightest chuckle. "We're picking up a _marked_ increase in inter-ship radio traffic from the enemy fleet."

"Are we able decrypt their communications, Lieutenant?"

"Negative, Commodore," replied Price, her pony tail swaying as she gently shook her head. "The enemy appears to be using a new encryption protocol; we can't break into their comms."

"But the fact that they _are_ talking would mean the presence of our friends has raised more than a few eyebrows on their pasty foreheads," sighed Ross. "Any indication they've slowed their approach?"

"Marginal change in target aspect, Commodore," replied Lieutenant Rosary. "They're redeploying their fighters and destroyers to form a perimeter in depth; looks like they're trying to prepare for a possible flank attack."

Gently shaking his head, Ross let out a slight huff.

"Somehow I don't think they're quite ready for this," he grinned. "Lieutenant Price; advise all Hammerheads to deploy in modified squadron-vic at the Fleet's twelve-high and six-low; stay clear of our line of fire, but be ready for the pounce in case those fighters move to engage."

"Aye, sir."

As he watched his own remaining fighters deploy themselves out both above and below the main body of the Fifteenth Fleet, Commodore Ross had a moment where he almost felt sorry for what they were about to unleash upon the Chigs.

But only just almost…

A moment later, it dissolved in the face of far more potent memories.

"This is for two years of hell," he growled, his tone momentarily growing uncharacteristically visceral. "Lieutenant Price."

"Sir?"

"Send Commander Kelso the go-signal," he said simply.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Commander?" called Petty Officer Rocca, her voice cutting through the tension that had been building in CIC.

"What is it, Rocca?" asked Commander Kelso as he downed the last gulp of a cooled cup of coffee.

"Message from the _Saratoga_, they report firm contact, sir, mission is a go."

While the trailing Raptors had kept him keenly aware of the alien fleet's position, with firm confirmation of contact from the _Saratoga_, Commander Sean Kelso was nevertheless instantly energized in a way that had nothing to do with whatever caffeine had been in the coffee.

"Confirm receipt of message with _Saratoga_," began Kelso as he quickly tossed the empty cup into the trash receptacle and snatched up the handset from his side of the plot table. "Put me through to the rest of the task force."

"You're on, Commander."

"This is _Galactica_-Actual; we have received the go-signal from _Saratoga_, initiating phase one. All commands report go or no-go."

With the handset firmly pressed to his ear, Commander Kelso listened as each of the other combat-capable ships in his fleet, themselves assembled with _Galactica_ at a distance Ross had estimated to be outside the alien fleet's detection range, rapidly reported in.

"Enceladus_ is a go_…"

"Savitri_, go_…"

"Proteus_, go_…"

"Adroa_ is go_…"

"Ikenga_, we are go_…"

"_Galactica_-Actual copies, all units are go," he grinned as he glanced across at Major Burke across the plot table. "Gods' speed to all, and good luck."

With that, Kelso placed the handset back in its place as he turned his gaze to the DRADIS display overhead.

"Initiate phase one, Major Burke," he said simply.

"Aye, sir," replied Burke as she lifted the handset poised in her hand to her ear, toggling the switch for the overhead One-MC. "This is the XO; all decks, all stations; prepare for combat jump."

As the sound of the ships alert siren pierced the air, adding a new current of anticipation to the already heavily charged atmosphere around CIC, Commander Kelso listened as Burke quickly ran down the checklist of combat stations, verifying their alert status.

"FTL drives are spun up, all stations report ready, Commander," she finally announced.

"Start the clock, Lieutenant Cortez."

"Aye, sir," replied Cortez quickly, already poised at the FTL computer as lifted a handset to his ear. "All hands, clock is running; jumping in three, two, one…"

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

For a moment, Ross wondered if a time would come that he might ever get used to it…

It was simply unnerving…

One moment, on the LIDAR, the Fifteenth Fleet, her fighters and the Colonial refugee ships arrayed out before a sizeable Chig task force…

The next moment, literally in an instant, the massive signature of the _Galactica_ appearing, an instant wall of imposing steel thrown up in a blocking position between the two fleets.

For a moment, though, Commodore Ross also couldn't help but grin.

Unnerving as it might still be for him, at least _this_ time he knew for certain that it wasn't his crews, his pilots, his good men and women who'd have to contend with that monster.

This time he knew, it was the enemy that was about to take a sound pounding.

And God help him, Ross knew he enjoyed that thought far more than he probably should.

"_Galactica_ has appeared as planned, Commodore," began Lieutenant Rosary. "Holding position approximately five hundred MSK's out at our six o'clock low."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," beamed Ross as he watched the LIDAR intently.

From the start, Commodore Ross and Commander Kelso had decided the plan would be as simple as possible, if only because they would be operating as a more-or-less integrated force for the very first time, a tricky proposition at best considering the _Saratoga_ was the only ship with a language translator linked into communications.

Nevertheless, simple plans could still sometimes yield profound results.

In very plain terms, they were going to let the Chigs decide for themselves if tackling the enormous _Galactica_ was a task they _really_ wanted to undertake.

From the way the Chig fleet had come to an almost dead stop upon _Galactica_'s appearance, Ross could tell they were trying to figure that out themselves.

They _had_ to know…

Enough of the enemy fighters had gotten away from the last engagement, heading off precisely in the direction _this_ fleet had come from…

They simply _had_ to know that this ship was _not_ something they'd be able to brush aside…

"Picking up a _marked_ increase in radio traffic from the Chig fleet, sir," said Lieutenant Price, her hand cupped over the headset sitting over her ear. "We still can't decrypt, but they are having one-hell-of-a conversation out there, Commodore."

"I'll bet they are," grinned Ross.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Enemy fleet is holding position, Commander," said Major Burke as she stood poised with her handset to her ear.

"Enough fighters got away last time to warn these guys of what we can do," muttered Commander Kelso, his eyes locked on DRADIS, his fingers still drumming away on the plot table. "The last fleet had more ships, more fighters…"

Letting out a long sigh, he continued to watch, to wait, eyes set on the icons representing the alien fleet overhead.

"All batteries, all squadrons are standing by for your orders, sir," prodded Burke, handset still pressed to her ear.

"Offensive posture, Major," he said, fingers drumming away. "Have all broadside batteries align for full spread dispersal HE along the entire enemy line."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke as she quickly relayed the order.

"Lieutenant Cortez?"

"Sir?"

"Pass the word; launch Vipers," continued Kelso as his fingers abruptly ceased drumming. "Blue Team will take the main effort, Red Team take up reserve fifty-k to their rear. Green Team, deploy to support position; reserve and defensive posture around _Saratoga_ and the combined fleet."

As he continued to watch the alien fleet all but hover, unmoving, DRADIS blossomed as almost all of _Galactica_'s air wing sallied forth once more from her flight pods.

In very bold terms, it was a challenge, the throwing down of the gauntlet.

No doubt the alien fleet had sortied under the belief that they'd be facing little more than simply an Earth fleet, perhaps reinforced, but to their mind's eye, a manageable enemy.

But now, it was clear from their hesitation, they understood that whatever status quo they'd believed to be in their favor had been utterly ripped asunder.

From everything he'd learned from Commodore Ross, it was clear that this enemy had never been faced with being so resoundingly outclassed.

With his Viper wings now deployed in three lines, two arrayed to directly engage the enemy, the third ready to pounce on anything and everything that approached the Earth fleet and the Colonial refugees nestled within their formation, Commander Sean Kelso was certain that no sane action remained for the enemy, no rational choice, but to withdraw.

And yet, maddeningly, they simply hovered there.

"Come on," he hissed impatiently. "Fight or flee, but do _something_."

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Ship<strong>

"What you are asking us to do is suicide."

"_We are not asking you; we are ordering you to attack_."

"You have seen the data from the fighters that survived the last battle; we cannot engage this enemy ship and survive."

"_That is true. However, that is not a concern to us. We need information on the capabilities of this new warship, on all the new ships we have detected_."

"I can't ask my warriors to sacrifice their lives just so you can obtain information."

"_That is not the proper attitude to take in this matter. After all, you must remember that our survival is your survival. More to the point, you have no choice. If you do not attack, there will be a penalty, one we are sure you are not willing to endure_."

"I understand."

"_We thought you might_."

"Since we no longer hold control over our lives, or our deaths, how would you order us to proceed with the attack?"

"_Since they would seem to be protecting the ships at the center of the formation, we would propose you make your main thrust towards them, see how they react_."

"We will do as you indicate."

"_Do so with the knowledge that though you will die today, you are doing so in order to ensure the survival of your species_."

"I am uncertain that will be of much comfort to the warriors who are about to die."

"_We do not care; proceed with the attack_."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

"The _Galactica_'s fighters are in defensive formation, Commodore," called Lieutenant Rosary.

"Very well," replied Commodore Ross flatly, his attention still very much focused on the Chig fleet as it remained motionless in space.

For several tense moments, there was not even a hushed word around the bridge as most everyone watched the LIDAR, wary, waiting.

"Commodore!" snapped Rosary suddenly, his crisp tone piercing the tension that had built up.

His eyes never having left the screen, perhaps not even blinking, Commodore Ross watched as the enemy fleet suddenly leapt forward.

"I see it, Lieutenant," replied Ross flatly as he watched the Chig fleet begin to move. "What's their course?"

But even as he asked the question, Commodore Glen van Ross felt that slight twist in the depths of his belly that told him he already knew the answer.

"They're coming right for us, Commodore," replied Rosary.

"Weaps; do we have a clear field of fire?"

"Affirmative, sir; four-fifty and three hundred mounts sighted and ready," replied Lieutenant Commander Connors.

"And _Galactica_?" snapped Ross.

But even as the words left his lips, Ross saw the LIDAR screen erupt with a torrent of signatures; what he'd come to realize was the telltale signature of the massive Colonial warship firing its weapons.

With the massive _Galactica_ tearing a substantial hole in the center of the advancing Chig fighters, Ross nevertheless saw that, for whatever reason, they were not halting their advance, insane as it was, the enemy was trying to push through the massive warships withering fire.

It was an observation not lost on any of his bridge personnel either.

Glancing back over his shoulder at Lieutenant Commander Connors, Ross gave the man a thoroughly questioning glare.

"Well, what the hell are you waiting for, an invitation?" he barked. "Open fire!"

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"_Saratoga_ and her fleet have engaged the enemy, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez amid the sound _Galactica_'s weapons firing echoing through the air.

"But the enemy ships are showing no sign of halting," muttered Major Burke, her head shaking slightly as she continued to eye the DRADIS screens overhead. "They're committing suicide."

"We still have time before they hit our main line of Vipers," said Commander Kelso evenly as he reached down and snatched up the handset. "Maybe we still have a chance to turn them back before they hit the Earth fleet's line."

Raising the handset to his ear, Commander Kelso looked over at Petty Officer Rocca.

"Scramble freq," he snapped as he returned his attention to the screen overhead.

"You're on, Commander."

"This is _Galactica_-Actual; go with phase two."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Jump complete, Colonel," called Lieutenant Thorpe. "All ships have deployed per preplotted attack pattern."

"Very well," replied Colonel Thadius Runel evenly as he stood, hands clasped behind his back, attention firmly locked on the DRADIS overhead. "Signal all ships; prepare to initiate bombardment plan."

With his eyes rapidly playing over the screen, Colonel Thadius Runel watched as the remainder of the Colonial combat assets slipped into a classic combat line; literally forming a new wall of enveloping gun platforms to pummel the alien line.

With _Galactica_ acting as the bulkwark upon which the alien fleet was throwing itself, _Enceladus_ formed the center of a new line to the enemy fleet's lower rear flank. Almost directly off the _Enceladus_' bow was the _Savitri_, her main batteries quickly swinging around to bear. To the aft of _Enceladus_ was _Proteus_, her guns once destined for dismantling now zeroing in on a new enemy. Capping the line at either end were the two stalwart Colonial Destroyers, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_.

And for the alien fleet, already seemingly intent on suicidally throwing themselves against the hail of fire being thrown up by the Warstar _Galatica_, the arrival of the previously unrevealed Colonial combat assets to their rear all but sealed their doom.

The aliens were outgunned…

Outmatched…

And now they had no remaining avenue of escape that didn't involve flying into a hail of fire.

"Main batteries report a firm firing solution, Colonel," called Lieutenant Thorpe.

"All ships reporting ready for action, sir," interjected Petty Officer Templeton a moment later.

"Confirm engagement order with the flagship," countered Colonel Runel evenly, his eyes never leaving the screens overhead.

The fact that Commander Kelso had given them the go order for jumping in could be seen as sufficient reason enough to engage; confirming such with _Galactica_ was merely a formality.

But if Colonel Thadius Runel was anything, or at least what he strived to be, was a consistent adherent to the letter of the regulations.

"Engagement order confirmed, Colonel," replied Templeton a moment later. "Flagship bids us good hunting."

In an instant, Colonel Runel snatched up the handset from the plot table.

"All batteries, all units; fire at will."

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Ship<strong>

Fear…

Pure, naked, unrelenting fear…

For the Force Commander, the sheer terror of this moment gripped onto his very being.

It was insane enough that their 'allies' had ordered them into a suicidal run directly into a hail of fire the likes of which he had never before encountered.

One unknown vessel was enough of a desperate challenge to undertake.

But in an instant, his fleet had become utterly surrounded.

They were without hope…

Was this what the Red Stink Creatures, the humans, had felt when their own fleets had been on the verge of collapse at the war's start?

Had he ever stopped to consider this war from the enemy's perspective before?

No, never…

Humankind had been the ones who'd ignored the warnings to stay away from their territory…

_They_ had been the ones who'd violated their most sacred moon by landing a probe there…

Victory against the Red Stink Creatures had been an imperative, a goal seen not too long ago as inevitable.

But in that moment of utterly crippling terror, the Force Commander knew, as inevitable as victory might or might not now be, the end of this atrociously costly conflict was something that he himself would never see.

A moment later, the hull structures around him, the crew that had steadfastly served him, all of his conscious thoughts and perceptions evaporated in a mercifully rapid explosion.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

His eyes locked on the screens overhead, Commander Sean Kelso watched as the alien fleet, seemingly intent on their own annihilation, continued to wade through the withering fire being thrown up by the Colonial warships.

Stubbornly, suicidally, they fruitlessly continued to try and push _through_ the harrowing barrage, and in doing so were sealing their own doom.

But unlike the last engagement, however, this time around Commander Sean Kelso felt far less ambiguity, almost none of the doubt.

In a very real sense, the enemy had chosen their fate this time.

Given the chance to withdraw, they'd instead flown right into the fray.

Given what Kelso had learned from Commodore Ross, of the ferocity of the enemy, of the losses suffered by Earth forces, he might even have felt a measure of reckoning in this action.

The Earth fleet certainly was.

In spite of the battering they'd taken, the losses they'd suffered, they were throwing their full measure into this fight.

Caught in a triangulation of brutal and unrelenting fire from three separate directions, a convergence of firepower from which they had no hope of escape, the alien fleet was being outright gutted; no quarter was being given.

"Contact!" burst Lieutenant Cortez, his tone so crisp it cut through the heavy din of _Galactica_'s weapons firing. "New DRADIS contact."

"Where?" snapped Major Burke.

"DRADIS relay coming in from _Proteus_, Major," replied Cortez instantly.

"Why didn't we pick them up before?" snapped Commander Kelso.

"Unknown, Major," continued Cortez as he watched the data scroll across his screens. "Contact is holding at _Proteus_' extreme detection range behind the rest of the alien fleet. Best guess, they were running silent, but they're sure as hell sending out a high number of wireless transmission now, sir."

"Command and control?" offered Burke as she stood attention focused on DRADIS overhead.

"Maybe," replied Kelso evenly. "But I'm not about to just wait around and find out."

With a swift motion, Commander Kelso snatched up his handset.

"Raise the _Saratoga_," he snapped to Rocca as he raised the handset to his ear.

"_This is_ Saratoga_, go ahead_ Galactica."

"Be advised, we have an unknown contact outside the prime engagement zone, can you verify whether there are any other Earth forces in this region?"

His eyes settling back in on the unknown contact overhead, Commander Kelso waited for the reply.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

"I need _absolute_ confirmation; is that the _Lexington_ or isn't it?" snapped Commodore Ross. "The last thing we need is to unleash that kind of shit-storm on one of our own boats."

"Best estimate still places _Lexington_ over two hours distant, Commodore," replied Lieutenant Price as she rapidly flipped through several printouts of the message they'd received from the sister carrier.

"Lieutenant Rosary?"

"Whatever _Galactica_'s fleet is picking up, it's not showing on our LIDAR, sir," replied Rosary, shaking his head as he glanced back over at Ross.

"Get me _Galactica_," snapped Ross.

Rapidly flipping a couple switches, Lieutenant Price turned and gave Ross a curt nod.

"This is _Saratoga_, we can neither confirm nor dismiss the possibility of a friendly at this time, _Galactica_."

"_This is _Galactica_-Actual; is it possible that this new contact is some sort of command and control vessel; we are picking up a large volume of communications to and from the contact_."

Instantly, Ross attention was piqued.

"Price?"

"Checking all frequencies, sir," replied Lieutenant Price as she returned her attention to the communications console.

After several tense moments, the speakers overhead began emitting an odd but unsettling series of electronic chirps. But as unexpected as the sounds were, they were unfortunately not unfamiliar ones to Ross or his people.

"Silicates," he hissed.

The word itself stirred a new undercurrent of anger within him.

"This is _Saratoga_; that is _not_ a friendly vessel, if your forces are able, I recommend you engage with _extreme_ prejudice."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Copy that," replied Commander Kelso simply as he looked over at Petty Officer Rocca. "Get me _Proteus_."

"Proteus_-Actual, go ahead_ Galactica."

"_Proteus_, _Galactica_; you have a contact at three-seven-one carom one-five-eight; vessel is tagged as a priority hostile; engage and destroy."

"_Copy that, _Galactica_; looks like the fight here has almost petered out anyways_," replied the voice of Major Amanda Tyle.

"Nothing fancy, _Proteus_, just put rounds on target," countered Commander Kelso evenly as he watched _Proteus_ turn in pursuit on the screen overhead.

As he set the handset down on the plot table, Commander Kelso returned the greater part of his attention to the continuing battle with the alien fleet itself.

In a very real sense, Major Tyle hadn't been too far off.

Caught in a three-way crossfire, the alien fleet's advance had rapidly devolved into a pummeling rout.

First to fall had been their capital ships, their advance faltering quickly in the face of resistance from _Galactica_ alone. The few enemy ships at the flanks that had survived the Warstar's opening shots hadn't even had much of an opportunity to savor even so small a victory before the arrival of _Enceladus_ and the remainder of the Colonial combat assets astern their formation utterly smashed them, pummeling them into battered debris.

Smaller, more maneuverable, the alien destroyers had made somewhat greater headway, the most successful of their number managing to cross _half_ the distance from the shattered enemy fleet's position to the Earth vessels before being caught in a thundering barrage of HE rounds that ended its existence.

With all semblance of a coherent formation ripped asunder by the convergence of fire, the survivors, what few there were, were a mere handful of fighters. Disorganized, in disarray, they seemed to seek what could be termed, at best, targets of opportunity.

Snatching back up the handset, Commander Kelso looked once more over at Petty Officer Rocca.

"All units," he snapped simply.

"Go, sir."

"This is _Galactica_; main line, reign in all fires to defensive," he began, his attention returning to DRADIS. "All Vipers, weapons free; good hunting."

As he set the handset back down onto the plot table, the overhead speakers rang out with the overlapping replies and acknowledgements from the aloft Vipers.

Taking a deep, almost pensive breath, Commander Kelso watched as the main Colonial combat ships ceased their heavy bombardment.

Without a doubt, the Colonial main line was more than capable of ending all further resistance from the alien fleet, especially with the added weight of the Earth fleet's cannonade.

But this was also the tipping point decision-wise between ability and logistics.

Simply put, gun for gun, the Vipers could take out the remaining fighters much more effectively and efficiently, especially when joined by the more experienced Earth fighters.

As the deep void was emptied of the heavy HE and triple-A fire, the shell-shocked alien fighters that had thus far survived the fray were suddenly pounced upon by the waiting force of Colonial Vipers, the Earth fighters coming up quickly to join the melee.

Panic upon dread, desperation upon hopelessness, the outnumbered alien fighters maneuvered wildly to try and escape the combined force, efforts that were for naught as they were quickly hunted down by the combined air wings.

Once more retrieving the handset from the plot table, Commander Sean Kelso raised it back to his ear as the overhead speakers rang out with the overlapping calls and triumphant cries of the swarming Vipers.

"_Proteus_, what is your status?"

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Proteus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"_Galactica_-Actual is requesting an update," called Petty Officer Jack Spencer.

Her attention flickering for a moment over towards her comm-operator, Major Amanda Tyle nevertheless kept her primary focus on the unknown contact on DRADIS.

For her part, Major Tyle was conscious, even self-conscious, of the fact that this was her first real trial.

They'd had some close scrapes to be sure during the escape from the Colonies.

But at almost every turn during those harrowing days, days that now felt as though they'd happened a lifetime ago, she may have been in command of _Proteus_, but she'd regularly deferred overall command of the situation to someone else.

First it had been Paul Bess.

Then it had been Adrian Kelso.

And then finally his son, Commander Sean Kelso.

But this was really the first time since she'd been put in command of _Proteus_, a command that had originally been envisioned as simply a quick jaunt to the ship's demise at the breakers, that she had been given an independent assignment.

And in a very real sense, Major Tyle was quite deliberately trying to remind of herself that the worst mistake she could make right now was overconfidence; it may only be one contact out there, but it only took one nuke in a vulnerable spot to crack a ship apart.

And _Proteus_, as comparatively powerful as she might be by comparison to these alien ships, was still a warship thirty years past her prime.

"Ensign Catala, is the contact showing any signs of evading?" asked Major Tyle as she absently licked her dry lips.

"Negative, Major; it's just sitting there," replied Catala, shaking her head slightly. "Either they don't know we're bearing down on them…"

"Or they don't care," finished Major Tyle, letting out a long sigh. "Okay, either way, let's not take any chances; advise the forward batteries to be ready for action as soon as we're within optimum range."

"Aye, Major."

"Helm, hold course, increase to one-half," continued Major Tyle as she glanced over at the still-waiting Petty Officer Spencer. "And advise _Galactica_ that we are closing with target, negative signs of evasion."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"So you're saying that ship out there is under the control of these Silicates of yours?" asked Commander Kelso evenly, handset pressed firmly to his ear as he kept a wary eye on the _Proteus_.

"_Affirmative, Commander Kelso_," replied Commodore Ross evenly.

Well, not Ross exactly, it was still the unsettling artificial voice translation, but times still being what they were…

"Any reason to suspect this vessel might be more of a threat?" asked Commander Kelso evenly as he glanced across at his curious XO.

"_To be honest, I'm not even sure what it is you might be looking at_," replied Ross flatly. "_If it's one of the old vessels the Silicates hijacked when they left Earth, then no, but if this is some new vessel furnished by the Chigs, there's no way to tell_."

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Commander Kelso returned his attention to the advancing _Proteus_.

"_Proteus_ is a good ship," he began evenly, if cognizant that he was purposefully omitting the fact that she was also older than any of the other combat ships under his command. "And her CO, Major Tyle, is a competent officer. We will keep you advised, _Saratoga_."

With that, he set the handset down once more upon the plot table.

Very much aware of the continued attention he was receiving from his XO from across the plot table, Commander Sean Kelso nevertheless kept his attention on the DRADIS overhead as the Vipers and Earth fighters continued to chase down the ever decreasing number of alien fighters.

"So what's the story, Commander?" asked Major Burke finally.

Lightly drumming his fingers on the plot table, Commander Kelso purposefully kept himself from meeting his XO's gaze.

Taken in context, the conversation he'd had with Commodore Glen van Ross was decidedly brief, quickly jumping from an attempt at building some bridge for communication with his Earth fleet counterpart to the abrupt effort to consolidate a defense against this second alien attack.

For very pragmatic reasons, Commander Sean Kelso had truncated what Ross had told him to what truly mattered in preparing for this battle when he'd briefed his senior officers.

One detail he'd left out was the revelation that Earth, like the Colonies, had suffered a rebellion at the hands of artificial intelligence.

It was a pragmatic decision in that it hadn't seemed directly relevant in organizing a defense against the alien attack.

But moreover, he'd felt revealing that information amid a crisis might strike a little too close to home for the Colonials, and he didn't need them dwelling on the horrors of the Cylons, a wound that was still very close to the surface for all of them, while grappling with looming combat.

But now it _was_ relevant.

Somewhere close by was a ship manned by artificially created lifeforms; Earth's own 'Cylons'.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Sean Kelso gently shook his head.

"It is Commodore Ross' opinion that the ship _Proteus_ is bearing down on is under the control…" pausing, he took in another deep breath. "…of artificially intelligent beings."

"Artificial?" spat Burke, the tone of her voice making the word sound like little more than an expletive. "You mean Cylons?"

"Not Cylons, per se," replied Commander Kelso flatly. "Not nearly as dangerous, but an _enemy_ ship none-the-less."

Nevertheless, in spite of his none-too-convincing addendum statement, there was an instant scowl on Major Burke's face as she glared back up DRADIS, a glare that spoke volumes.

Shallow wounds indeed…

"From what Commodore Ross told me, there was a war, but the Silicates, that's what they're called, were driven from Earth into deep space," continued Commander Kelso evenly. "When the war with the aliens began, the Silicates allied with the aliens, but their role has been limited, mostly acting as mercenaries at best."

"We have to warn _Proteus_, sir," interjected Burke flatly. "They deserve to know what they're up against."

Fingers drumming away, Commander Kelso simply nodded to Burke.

In an instant, Burke snatched up the handset from her side of the plot table and gave a curt nod over at Petty Officer Rocca.

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Proteus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Copy that, _Galactica_," muttered Major Tyle, her already dry lips feeling all the dryer as her pulse quickened.

Slowly hanging the handset back up, Major Tyle returned her attention to the contact of DRADIS, suddenly much more guarded.

All her life, like most every other child born following the Cylon War, Major Amanda Tyle had been instilled with a deep and utterly uncompromising distrust of artificial lifeforms. It was an ingrained lesson that came with good reason, especially when placed in context with the destruction wrought upon the Colonies at the hands of the Cylons.

Gods…

In an instant, Major Tyle's mind accelerated.

She wasn't taking any chances.

"Ensign Catala, get on the horn down to CAG; I want Alert-Five Vipers in the air and stand-up Alerts-Fifteen and Thirty to Alert-Five status," began Major Tyle as she snatched back up the handset. "This is Actual, I want all batteries readied, full-load AP."

With her orders acknowledged, Major Tyle refocused her attention on DRADIS.

"Time till we are within range?"

"Seven minutes, Major."

"Seven minutes," she echoed, her voice barely a whisper.

Letting out a long sigh, her entire body felt tense, every sense on edge.

Gods help her if she didn't feel she had reason to be.

"Well, shouldn't make a difference I guess," she muttered, her voice barely audible even to herself. "A Toaster's a Toaster…"

It was then that the contact overhead suddenly vanished.

"What the frak?" muttered Tyle, her brow furrowing deeply as she searched the screen with her eyes. "Where the hell did it go, Ensign Catala?"

"No contact, no residual signature, Major," replied Catala, her voice edging towards frantic. "They're just gone."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"What do you mean '_gone_'?" sputtered Commander Kelso as he stood glaring up at the blank portion of the screen where the contact had been.

"No contact, whatsoever, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez evenly.

"What, did it jump away?" shot Major Burke as she leaned in over plot table.

"Ross says the aliens don't possess jump technology," replied Commander Kelso evenly, gently shaking his head as he continued to search the DRADIS for the vanished contact.

Frustration rapidly boiling up, Commander Kelso snatched back up his handset.

"_Saratoga_, _Galactica_, we've lost the contact," he began, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Are you certain the aliens haven't developed jump technology similar to our own?"

"_Highly unlikely, _Galactica," replied Commodore Ross evenly. "_We weren't even aware such technology was feasible until you showed up_."

"I don't think it was a jump, Commander," replied Cortez a moment later. "Passive arrays didn't detect any spatial distortions. Near as I can tell, the ship has simply stopped transmitting over wireless."

"That still doesn't make sense, sir," chimed in Burke, leaning in slightly over the plot table. "Even if they simply turned off their wireless DRADIS should still be pinging off of something out there."

"Unless…" muttered Commander Kelso, returning his attention to the screen, his gut twisting with each passing second the screen stayed empty as he keyed the handset. "_Saratoga_, _Galactica_, do you have any reports of the enemy using stealth technology?"

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

The moment he heard the word 'stealth', Commodore Ross' guts began to twist.

All too vivid were the memories of the last time the Chigs had employed stealth technology, doing so with all-too-tragic results.

The craft had been nicknamed Chiggy von Richtofen by Earth forces, an infamous moniker that just barely alluded to the sheer number of IFOR Hammerheads it alone had been responsible for destroying.

Adorned with a grim caricature of a human skull and the terror-inspiring words 'Abandon All Hope', the lone advanced fighter had waded through several IFOR squadrons before being felled by the lone and fearlessly audacious efforts of Tyrus Cassius McQueen.

But the reign of terror that one ship alone had unleashed managed to completely stall the Earth forces for months.

It had been hoped by IFOR Intel, desperately, that it had remained a lone prototype.

Because if it wasn't…

Dear God in heaven…

"_Galactica_, _Saratoga_, be advised, the enemy has utilized stealth technology in the past with _devastating_ results," began Ross as he became all too aware of the looks he was receiving from the crew around him. "Recommend your forces proceed with the utmost caution."

"_We copy,_ Saratoga."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Proteus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"We copy, _Galactica_," sighed Major Tyle as she held the handset firmly to her ear. "We've already put five Raptors aloft for a more concentrated recon, alert Vipers are in the air as well. With any luck…"

But before Major Tyle could finish her sentence, the overhead speakers suddenly erupted.

"_Gods-dammit_," burst a thoroughly panicked voice. "Proteus_, this is Raptor Six-One-Eight_…."

A sudden, piercing squeal of static cut in across the transmission.

"_Galactica_, I'll have to get back to you," snapped Major Tyle curtly as she dropped the handset onto the plot table and returned her full attention back to the DRADIS overhead.

"_Frak! _Proteus_ we've got a problem out here_," continued the frantic voice a moment later.

"Major, we've lost track on Raptors Six-Eight-Two and Four-One-Nine," called Ensign Catala from the Tac-Ops station. "No wireless report, they just vanished, Six-One-Eight is maneuvering but I don't see any…"

"_This is Six-One-Eight, I'm in real trouble_," continued the voice of the harried Raptor pilot as he grunted with exertion, presumably from maneuvering his craft. "_Raptors Six-Eight-Two and Four-One-Niner are down_…"

Another piercing shrill of static echoed out through CIC.

"…_looks like our missing friend wasn't alone, I've got two or three bandits in chase, and I can't shake them_…"

Overwhelming the voice was a sudden, thunderous explosion.

"_Six-One-Eight is down_," cut in the voice of another Raptor pilot, more composed, but still nearly breathless. "_Oh, frak me, there they are_."

Her heart racing, Major Amanda Tyle was utterly captivated by the voice echoing in overhead.

"_Frak, I see three total_," cut in yet another Raptor pilot.

"_Copy, we see them_," cut back the voice of the first Raptor pilot. "Proteus_, be advised, we have zero contact on DRADIS, but clear as day, three fighter-sized ships are, oh frak, look out Bo-Bo, they're vectoring in at your nine_!"

"_What, where_…"

Another horrendous explosion echoed out through CIC, accompanied by yet another primal, outright blood-curdling scream as the icon for yet another Raptor disappeared from the screen overhead.

"Comm, order all Raptors; break contact and get back to _Proteus_, now!" snapped Tyle.

Too late…

As still another gut-wrenching scream was cut off by static, the icon for their last recon Raptor suddenly vanished from DRADIS overhead.

Five Raptors, ten pilots, ten good people, gone…

Her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach, Major Tyle's eyes darted all about the DRADIS overhead, desperate for some sign, some blip, _something_.

But there was nothing…

"Prepare all defensive batteries for point cover, full three sixty," snapped Major Tyle, her skin tingling, cold.

"Aye, Major."

"Proteus_, this is Squibbo, I think I have eyes on the three contacts at my five-low; do you want me to close and engage_?"

In a flash, Major Tyle snatched back up the handset from the plot table.

"This is Actual, that it a _negative_, all Vipers, do not engage unless you have _firm_ contact," replied Tyle instantly.

"_Nothing on DRADIS, but I swear there's something out there, Actual_."

"_This is Hickey, I've got them too, Tally-three Bandits, coming in…oh frak, _Proteus_ they are coming right for you_!"

"What, where?" snapped Tyle, her eyes once more darting about the screen overhead.

Should she order the defensive batteries to just open up?

With no firm contact, no target, should they just fire blind?

Gods, they'd probably just end up ripping their own Vipers apart…

"_This is Squibbo, they're not turning away; Hickey fall in to my rear four, I'm angling in_."

"_Copy that_."

Her mind racing, Major Amanda Tyle felt powerless.

Her planes were turning in on three targets that had already downed five Raptors in a matter of moments, targets they had no DRADIS contact with…

"_Frak, this motherfraker is fast_," snapped Squibbo.

In the background, Tyle could hear the distinct staccato of the Viper firing short, controlled bursts.

"_Frak, I can't get a good bead_," continued Squibbo.

"_Frakers aren't changing course_," interjected Hickey, the sound of weapons fire likewise audible in the background. "_Gods dammit, our rounds are just bouncing off the motherfrakers_."

"_Frak, targeting can't get a missile lock either_."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Major Tyle switched from searching for the phantom signatures she knew she wouldn't find to focusing in on the wildly maneuvering signatures of her own engaging Vipers.

Maybe she could estimate the phantom enemy's range based on the movements of her own planes…

Maybe if _Proteus_' defensive guns opened up her pilots could spot the fire in for a kill…

But what if one of her own planes was hit instead?

As she continued to watch, still more of the Vipers flying defensive formation around _Proteus_ peeled away, angling in to assist the planes already in pursuit.

"_This is Chipper; keep chasin'em our way, Squibbo, if you can corral them, we'll try for a head-on pass_."

"_Copy that, Chipper, but stay frosty, these frakers are slippery_."

Her mind racing, Major Tyle watched as still more of her aloft fighters turned in towards the phantom pursuit, listening as still more pilot chatter continued filtering in overhead.

While the channel was alive with voices, calls, shouts overlapping, there was one clear fact that echoed out amid the verbal chaos; the three ships, whatever they were, were heading right for the _Proteus_.

"_They're not turning away_," growled one of the pilots, a long, sustained burst accompanying her voice.

"Proteus_, be advised, they're not breaking course_," cut in another pilot, his tone heavy with anger. "_Targets are CBDR, wide abreast off your starboard, no sign they intend to change heading_."

Snapping the handset back up to her ear, Major Tyle all but glared at the blank area of screen where the three closing phantom craft _should_ have been.

"This is Actual; all Vipers break pursuit and get the frak out of there, now!" snapped Major Tyle. "All Starboard side batteries, open fire, wide dispersal, point-blank suppressive; I say again, _point-blank_ proximity fire."

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, Tyle watched as the pursuing Vipers veered sharply away, very much cognizant that without a firm DRADIS lock, all of _Proteus_' starboard batteries would be opening up, firing blind, filling the surrounding space with a lethal hail of fire that wouldn't be able to discern between friend or foe.

As she dropped the handset back away from her ear, Major Tyle watched, listened as the thunderous drone of the _Proteus_'s weapons filled the air throughout CIC.

Her eyes locked on the maddeningly blank screen overhead, Tyle's breathing was rapid, clipped.

"Come on," she seethed.

Even without seeing it with her eyes, Major Tyle knew, out in space, in the general direction of the unseen contacts, a hail of fire was being thrown up, a wall of shells and shrapnel that should have torn apart or dissuaded _any_ attacker.

_Should_ have…

"_I've lost visual in the flak barrier_," shouted one of the Viper pilots.

"_Frak, where'd they go_?" interject yet another.

"_Dear gods, there they are_!" snapped yet another, her voice filled with utter panic. "_They're not turning away,_ Proteus…"

But Major Tyle never had a chance to hear the rest of what the pilot was trying to convey.

Cutting through the cacophony of shouts, cries, calls from the pilots, slicing through the thunderous din of the weapons fire, a horrendous, deafening roar echoed through the air, through the bulkheads, through the very stanchions of the _Proteus_.

No, _three_ blasts, almost simultaneous, but each distinct.

All around her the entire CIC shook, pitching beneath Major Tyle's feet, sending her sprawling out across the deck.

"Decompression alarm!" shouted Ensign Catala even as she was tossed from her seat.

All around CIC, crewmembers lashed out with their hands, with desperation, clinging onto consoles, onto each other as the entire vessel shook under the impacts, the overlapping cacophony of multiple warning alarms piercing the air.

"Damage report!" shouted Tyle as she struggled her way back towards the plot table.

Amid the cries and shouts, no one answered at first.

Overhead, the blaring alarms continued to echo out, bouncing off the bulkheads.

"Someone get me a fraking damage report now!" she shouted once more as she hauled herself back to her feet.

"Board is showing three impacts to the starboard flight pod!" called Ensign Catala, her voice barely audible over the alarm. "Fires and decompression warnings all along the hangar deck."

"_Oh, frak me,_ Proteus_, all three ships just rammed into the flight pod_," interjected one of the Viper pilots, his voice distorted with static, barely cutting through the pandemonium in CIC. "Proteus_, do you copy_?"

"We copy," burst Tyle flatly, handset pressed to her ear, her other hand clutching onto the plot table as the vessel's quaking abated beneath her feet. "Away all DC teams; Starboard pod, hangar deck."

With fire and decompression alarms blaring, the sound of sporadic explosions still echoing through the bulkheads, Major Tyle's heart sank still further.

"_Galactica_, be advised," she began, hesitating, barely able to lift her eyes back to the screens overhead, the very words choking her throat. "We've had a collision."


	7. Affirmation

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Taking slow, deliberate breaths, Commander Sean Kelso stood at the plot table, every muscle in his body tense, aching; the nerve-racking agony of waiting.

He didn't move, didn't so much as twitch in spite of how rapidly his heart was pounding within his chest as he continued to listen to the overhear speakers broadcast the feed coming in over the wireless from _Proteus_.

Indeed, all around CIC, everyone was silent, somber, listening intently as the drama, the sheer terror aboard the crippled carrier continued to unfold.

The battle itself was over, the entire force of alien ships now little more than shattered debris in the breathless void of deep space, but the strike against the _Proteus_ had utterly numbed any sense of victory, numbed it so terribly in fact that it almost felt like a defeat.

As an engineer as well as a man who was very protective of the men and women under his charge, Commander Sean Kelso's first instinct had been to jump aboard a Raptor and make his way over to the burning _Proteus_.

Yet, he hadn't gone.

_Proteus_ was Major Amanda Tyle's command.

As the _Commander_ of the whole fleet it simply wasn't his place.

Flexing his tense fingers, trying to dispel the aching he felt in them, Commander Kelso glanced across the plot table into the somber eyes of Major Burke.

"The rest of our combat assets have pulled into defensive formation with the Earth fleet around the civilian ships, Commander," she said evenly, her voice barely a whisper as the shouts and screams continued to echo out overhead. "Red and Blue teams are back aboard, refueling and rearming; Green team and the Earth fighters have taken up a concentrated CAP."

"Very well," choked Kelso as he continued to listen to the frantic transmissions overhead.

"Commander?" called Petty Officer Rocca.

"Yes?"

"Major Tyle on a secure line for you, sir."

In an instant, Commander Kelso snapped his handset up to his ear.

"This is _Galactica_-Actual," he began, his voice clipped with tension. "What's your status?"

Even before she could answer, Commander Kelso could hear from the deep, rapid breaths she was taking that Major Tyle sounded as though she was teetering on the verge of collapse.

"Galactica-_Actual, this is _Proteus-_Actual; vent action complete_," she began, her voice raspy. "_Vent action complete, fires are out at this time, continuing DC and recovery efforts_."

Simple as it was, it was the transmission he'd been waiting for.

Dropping the handset away from his ear for a moment, Commander Kelso shot a glance over at the helm.

"Chapman, bring us alongside the _Proteus_," he snapped.

Lifting the handset back to his ear, Kelso caught sight of Burke's questioning look.

"Fires are out," he said simply.

Relieved, she simply nodded her head.

Harsh as it was, so long as the _Proteus_ had been burning, Colonial SOP had dictated they maintain their distance; pure and simple, if _Proteus_ had gone up because of her internal fires, they couldn't have risked _Galactica_ or any other ship going up with her.

"_Proteus_, this _Galactica_-Actual, we will be coming alongside a-port," began Commander Kelso evenly. "ETA is about five minutes, we will be sending over additional DC and Medical units to assist."

"_Understood, Actual_," replied Major Burke evenly. "_Appreciate the assist_."

Pausing, Commander Kelso dreaded the next inevitable question.

"Any idea on casualties yet?"

This time it was Major Tyle who paused.

"_We know we lost five Raptor crews_," began Major Tyle evenly. "_None of our aloft Vipers were hit, but we had our air wing stood up when the ships rammed us. Starboard pod has sustained heavy damage, especially along the flight deck, and our DC teams are only beginning to make their way into the outer causeways and spaces. This could get pretty bad, sir_."

As she spoke, there was a decidedly apologetic tone to Major Tyle's voice.

"_I'm sorry, sir_," she continued a moment later. "_I should have_…"

"You have no reason to apologize, Major," began Commander Kelso evenly, cutting her off. "People die in combat; it's a fraked up fact we just can't change. You weren't able to get a DRADIS track on the ships that hit you, but you did exactly what anyone would have or _could_ have done. More importantly, you kept your head and kept the _Proteus_ from being lost. We can't undo the losses we've already sustained, all we can do is start work on getting your ship back to rights."

As he stood there, handset pressed to his ear, waiting, Commander Kelso could hear Major Tyle breathing deeply on the other end of the transmission.

No; sobbing.

Gently, almost silently, but nevertheless, he could hear it.

"_We'll be standing by for your emergency teams, sir_," she finally muttered.

With that, the transmission terminated.

Slowly hanging the handset back up, Commander Kelso let out a long sigh.

"Teams are standing by at transfer causeways, sir," began Major Burke evenly. "Sickbay is standing by to receive the worst of the wounded."

"Thank you, Major."

Burke simply nodded in response.

"Sir, we're receiving a message from the _Saratoga_," called Petty Officer Rocca. "Commodore Ross is offering the services of his trauma teams in case we need additional medical support."

"Send Commodore Ross my thanks, Rocca," replied Kelso as he glanced back over at her. "As soon as we've begun our triage efforts, we will advise whether we will need to transfer any of the wounded over."

"Aye, sir."

Slowly lifting his eyes back to the screens overhead, Commander Kelso winced slightly as the tense muscles in his neck cramped up.

"Humbling," he finally muttered as he gently massaged the cramp.

"Sir?"

"I guess the gods finally decided we needed a bit of humbling, Major," began Kelso evenly as he looked across the plot table to the questioning Burke. "We waded through those alien ships with such ease, guess they figured it was time for us to get a bit of an ass-kicking ourselves."

"As if we didn't get enough of one when the Colonies fell," huffed Burke bitterly. "Frak the gods."

Almost in spite of himself, Commander Kelso nodded his head.

Nevertheless, gods or not, prayers answered or ignored, Commander Kelso knew they now faced a very stark reality; one of his ships had been critically damaged because the enemy had managed to defeat DRADIS detection, a vulnerability they'd need to overcome or risk still further and potentially more catastrophic losses.

"Lieutenant Cortez?" called Commander Kelso evenly.

"Sir?"

"Summon Major Macedo to CIC."

"Aye, sir."

"Macedo, sir?" muttered Burke.

Nodding gently, Kelso looked back over to his XO.

"We need to figure out how those stealth ships were able to evade DRADIS," began Kelso evenly, continuing to gently massage the cramp in his neck.

"You think Macedo and his team will be able to find a solution?"

"I'm _hoping_ they'll be able to find a solution, yes," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he returned his attention to the screens overhead.

Having closed the distance to the wounded _Proteus_, _Galactica_ was now sliding up beside the undamaged Port flight pod. With the emergency egress-ways extending out, Commander Kelso glanced over at the security camera feeds and saw literally dozens of medical and support personnel poised to flood over onto the wounded carrier.

"Might be a bad time to suggest so, sir, but we could still just extricate ourselves…" began Burke, stopping midsentence as Commander Kelso held his hand up and slowly looked her in the eye.

"_Very_ bad time to suggest such, Major," began Kelso, his tone all but a warning. "If nothing else, this attack makes it clear; our presence has stirred up a hornet's nest. We can't just wash our hands of it and head off into deep space anymore. More to the point, where would we go? We're here because making contact with the Earth fleet was, and still is, our _best_ chance of finding a new home for our people."

"I guess I'm just trying to understand, sir," began Major Burke, her tone cautious, calculated. "At what point are the losses too great? Where do we draw the line between the survival of the Earth fleet, and the survival of our own people?"

"By making it clear that as of now, there is no such distinction, Major," replied Commander Kelso flatly. "Whether we're talking about the survival of the human lives aboard the _Saratoga_ or those aboard _Galactica_, there is no longer a difference."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

For a moment, Commodore Glen van Ross felt like a man with an immeasurable privilege.

Although the techs below decks were working to clone the translation software onto a few more computers for distribution to the fleet, _Saratoga_ was still the only ship in the Fifteenth Fleet equipped with a translation system, as such, only the _Saratoga_ was able to more-or-less eavesdrop as _Galactica_ rendered aid to the wounded _Proteus_.

As much as he sincerely lamented the lives lost to Commander Kelso and his people, in a peculiar way, Ross was almost comforted, however soberly, by the incident.

In plain terms, the technology and capabilities of Commander Kelso's fleet had seemed so spectacular, so invulnerable that to know that they were just as mortal and fallible as his own people went a long way towards disarming Commodore Ross in regards to cementing his trust in them.

Moreover, Commander Kelso's Chief Medical Officer had been quick to take up Ross' offer of assistance, transferring about half a dozen of the _Proteus_' wounded over to the _Saratoga_. With his own trauma and burn teams now working diligently to tend to those wounded, Ross could almost feel it as the last of his reservations about the Colonials gave way.

Not only had they fought at each other's side, now they'd bled, truly bled alongside one another as well.

As he focused his attention in on Commander Kelso's SAR birds as they searched through and recovered debris from their lost recon ships, Commodore Ross heard an alarm sound from the communications station.

"Sir?" chimed Lieutenant Price. "Picking up flash traffic on VLF."

"Source?" snapped Ross, his attention never leaving the LIDAR.

"Ship-to-ship IFF burst," replied Price, a grin quickly coming across her lips as she glanced back over at the Commodore. "It's the _Lexington_, sir."

"Don't take IFF for granted, Lieutenant," snapped Ross evenly as he watched three more ships come into LIDAR range. "Play this by the book; verify the signal."

For a few moments, tension began to seep back into the general mood around the bridge as Lieutenant Price ran through a standard series of IFF and recognition code protocols.

While it was theoretically feasible that the Chigs had managed to crack those codes, there was a touch of intentional idiosyncrasy built into them that thus far had utterly eluded the enemy's attempts to counteract.

In this case, a simple challenge and password based on an obscure cultural reference.

"Kermit, green," muttered Price as she read off of a short printout.

"_Miss Piggy, pink_," came the reply.

Looking back over at Ross, Lieutenant Price nodded.

"Patch them through," said Ross as he quickly stepped over towards the comm.

"_Lexington_, this is _Saratoga_, do you copy?" began Price as Ross made his way over.

"_We read you _Saratoga_; good to see you're still in one piece_," replied the voice on the other end of the transmission.

Stepping up, Ross extended his hand out to Price, the young officer quickly handing him the mic in her hand.

"_Lexington_, this is Boss Ross," began Ross, himself barely able to contain the grin creasing his lips.

"_Ross, this is Cassel_," replied a different voice, one Ross quickly recognized as his long-time friend.

"Good to hear your voice, old friend," snapped Ross, his grin growing even larger. "Appreciate the heads-up on that Chig fleet; I've got a fine bottle of Havana Club Añejo Reserva waiting to express my thanks."

"_Copy that, looking forward to it_," replied Cassel, his voice clearly hesitating for a moment. "_We're, uh, we're picking up some unusual LIDAR returns on our end over here, can you confirm; what's your situation_?"

Chuckling slightly, Ross couldn't help but be amused by Commodore Robert Cassel's choice of words.

Unusual indeed…

By now, the _Lexington_ likely had a LIDAR full of contacts; Commander Kelso's fleet.

How would Bob Cassel react once he saw one of these mammoth warships pull a hyper-light jump?

"Be advised, all contacts are friendly," began Ross evenly as he glanced over at Lieutenant Price. "Be sure to advise _Galactica_ of the inbounds, inform them that they are non-hostile."

"Aye, sir."

"_Friendlies_?" muttered Cassel. "_Just how long have we been pandering about out here that IFOR had time to build beasts as big as those ships_?"

"Well, Bob, let's just say it's a long story," replied Ross evenly.

"_Can't wait to hear it_," retorted Commodore Cassel. "_I've got some interesting news of my own to pass on_."

"What kind of news?" asked Ross, his grin fading a bit as he noted the urgency in Cassel's tone.

"_Not now, this needs to be in person_," replied Cassel flatly. "_I'll be on an ISSCV in thirty mikes_."

"Copy that," sighed Ross evenly.

Whatever information he had, it must be pretty important for Commodore Robert Cassel to want to relay it face-to-face.

"Be advised we will stand ready to receive ISSCV in thirty," continued Commodore Ross. "Go ahead and pull your ships into our defense perimeter, transmit any medical and logistical support requests you have; we're running a bit short of porterhouse steak at the moment, but we'll see what we can scrounge up."

"_Appreciated, _Saratoga_, we're in need of some pretty heavy patching over here_," replied Cassel, his tone even, but clearly tired. "_And we wouldn't turn down any decent coffee if you have any either_."

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to give me some hint as to what it is you want to discuss in trade?" prodded Ross.

As he watched _Lexington_ and the battered remains of the Twelfth Fleet pull into formation, Ross waited out the distinct pause, soon becoming convinced that no reply was forthcoming.

"_Glenn_," began Cassel, his voice accompanied by a heavy sigh. "_All I can say right now is that something _big_ has happened_."

Pausing to look back over at the LIDAR screen, at _Galactica_, _Proteus_ and all the rest of Commander Kelso's fleet, Ross silently nodded his head.

"You have no idea how right you are, my friend."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"So you _can_ defeat this stealth technology?" interjected Major Burke flatly as she stood looking at the printouts lying before her, her expression looking like nothing so much as something one would expect from a monkey trying to puzzle through a math problem.

"It actually didn't take as much work out a solution as I'd initially feared," began Major Malcom Macedo as he adjusted his thin rimmed glasses.

"Must be pretty confident that you can detect them to come back with a solution so quick," said Commander Kelso evenly as he absently glanced up at DRADIS. "You're team has only been at this for, what, an hour, hour-and-a-half?"

"Not so much a matter of my team's ability, Commander; the solution was, tragically, right in front of us all along," sighed Macedo as he took out another set of data printouts and handed them to the Commander. "When we began running through the _Proteus_' DRADIS logs, cross referenced those data sets with the ones we retrieved from the downed Raptors, we came across an unknown radiological anomaly."

"Radiological?" muttered Burke, her brow furrowing as she stepped around and glanced down at the sheets in the Commander's hand. "Why didn't the radiological detection systems sound an alarm?"

"Because they weren't set to react to this kind of radiological signature," replied Macedo evenly. "In fact, I've never even _seen_ a radiological signature like this before."

"Neither have I," muttered Commander Kelso as he perused through the data. "It barely even registers; this is a _very_ clean emission signature, almost non-existent."

"But if the radiological detection systems picked it up, why wasn't DRADIS able to get a track?" asked Burke flatly.

"The radiological systems are meant for a very specific purpose; to detect potential nuclear and thermonuclear devices," began Macedo. "It's a passive system that picks up on the radioactive decay of known isotopes typically employed in warheads."

"And whatever this is, the system would have simply dismissed it as irrelevant since it doesn't fit the known isotope decay profiles," continued Commander Kelso, letting out a long sigh as he set the sheets down on the plot table. "How long will it take to upload this signature into the recognition software?"

"An hour at most," replied Macedo evenly as he collected the pages back up. "The trouble is range. This is a _very_ passive signature, can't even begin to guess at what is putting it out or what it's utilized for, but if we're depending on the passive detection systems, it will cut our detection range almost in half."

"Doesn't give us much chance to scramble in response," muttered Burke, gently shaking her head as she cast a weary glance back up at DRADIS.

"Short range is better than nothing," sighed Commander Kelso evenly as he began massaging at the knot still plaguing his neck. "Get on it Major Macedo; I want all ships, Raptors included able to cue in on this signature by the end of the day."

"Aye, sir," nodded Macedo as he turned, papers in hand, and began making his way towards the entryway.

"Oh, and Major Macedo?" called Kelso as the computer expert was halfway to the entry doors.

"Sir?" snapped Macedo as he turned back around.

"Good work."

"Just keep my team in mind the first chance we have at some liberty, Commander, that will be thanks enough," grinned Macedo.

"No promises," replied Kelso, the barest hint of a grin likewise on his face as he waved Macedo out.

"And just what would _he_ do on liberty?" muttered Burke as she watched Macedo leave. "Guy like that, can't imagine him to be much of a party animal."

"Thought by now you'd have learned not to judge a book by its cover, Major," smiled Commander Kelso as he too watched Macedo go.

"Old habits," shrugged Burke as she slowly made her way back around to the opposite side of the plot table. "So when are you heading over to the _Saratoga_ again?"

"I should get going now," sighed Commander Kelso as he glanced up at the clock.

"Any idea what this meeting is about?"

"Commodore Ross wasn't very specific," replied Kelso, shaking his head slightly as he gathered up a few printouts. "Probably has something to do with the other Earth ships that arrived."

"Wants to show us off, huh?"

"From what I've been able to gather of the man, Commodore Ross doesn't strike me as the kind to flaunt anything just for pomp and circumstance," replied Commander Kelso as he took one more habitual look at DRADIS. "Is the escort detail I asked for ready?"

"Affirmative, sir," answered Burke, nodding gently. "The body we found in the wreckage and all his effects should be getting loaded aboard the Raptor as we speak. Captain Gaines should also have the Marine escorts ready as well."

"Thank you, Major," sighed Kelso as he glanced absently down as his watch.

"I'm still somewhat at a loss as to why you feel the need to return the body to the Earth fleet, sir," began Burke, looking across the plot table at Kelso, her expression decidedly curious. "Aren't you the least bit concerned they might try and accuse us of being the ones who killed him, especially since we didn't let West or the other soldiers know we had the body in the first place?"

"Before we were able to talk to one another, that might have been a valid concern," shrugged Kelso simply as he looked back across at Burke. "But now that we are able to communicate, I'm not inclined to believe they'll see us returning their man to them as a threat. Quite simply, it's the right thing to do; that man died fighting for the survival of his people and his world, for that alone he deserves the respect of being returned home."

"Still, I hope this gesture has the effect you're hoping for, sir," said Burke as she returned her attention to the security feed from the egress airlocks. "It took a bit of doing to get the detail together; not many of our Marines have their full dress uniforms with them."

Glancing up at the security feed himself, Kelso simply took a breath as he watched some of the walking wounded from the _Proteus_ make their way over, noting the particularly disheartening sight of a man, his orange deck uniform scorched, his hands, eyes and most of his head covered in gauze being led aboard by a couple of _Galactica_ medics.

"Just be sure to keep me posted on the repairs to _Proteus_," sighed Kelso as he forced himself to look away from the security feed. "You have the conn, Major."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke, canting her head slightly as Commander Kelso quickly made his way towards the entryway.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Main Briefing**

"Please tell me you're not actually buying into this load of horseshit, Glen," shot Commodore Robert Cassel, his expression one of near disdain as he tossed the clipboard holding the transcript of Ross' conversation with Kelso down with a clatter onto the briefing table. "This is a mind-fuck, plain and simple."

"Believe me, Bob, I had my doubts, too," began Ross evenly as he sat opposite of Cassel. "But I'm also not going to lie to you; if it weren't for those ships out there, we wouldn't even be _having_ this conversation."

At that, Cassel all but tossed his head back, letting out a deriding raspberry as he shook his head.

Glen van Ross had known Bob Cassel a long time, had fought alongside him during the A.I. Wars. It was the benefit of that mutual experience and respect that Ross afforded Cassel a measure of familiarity he rarely afforded to anyone.

Indeed, the fact that they were the only ones currently in the room was about all that afforded Ross the comfort of being able to take Cassel's comments with a grin.

"Honestly, Glen, do you really think these people are from some far off distant planet?" sighed Cassel, casually stretching one leg out across an adjacent chair. "I mean, their whole cover story is so absurd…"

"I'm not arguing that their explanation of their origins doesn't strain credibility, Bob," began Ross evenly as he reached down and produced the promised bottle of Havana Club Añejo Reserva rum and a couple shot glasses from a small duffle bag sitting on the deck. "But no matter how you view their story, those ships can _fight_."

His attention caught by the gentle clinking sound of the shot glasses, Cassel practically sat up ramrod straight in his seat as Ross poured two neat shots and slid one towards Cassel.

"And I presume I don't have to point out the possibility that this is all some massive snow-job by the enemy?" muttered Cassel as he carefully, almost lovingly picked up the shot glass.

"If you'd seen with your own eyes the hell they unleashed on not one but _two_ Chig fleets, you wouldn't be asking me that question," countered Ross as he slowly held up his own shot glass. "To tall ships."

"Tall ships," echoed Cassel as he returned the toast.

With that, both men tossed backed the shots.

"Ahhh…" growled Cassel as the potent alcohol burned its way down his throat, half-coughing as he set the empty shot glass back down onto the table. "You have any idea how long it's been since I had some hooch?"

"What, you're people haven't yet resorted to distilling mouthwash yet?" chuckled Ross as he reached over and retrieved the empty glass, promptly refilling it.

"Ran out of mouthwash a couple weeks ago," replied Cassel, a wry grin on his face as he took hold of the newly refilled shot glass.

With that, both men let out a hearty laugh as they each once again emptied the glasses.

After so much loss, so much destruction, it simply felt _good_ to laugh, if only for a moment.

"So what exactly do you plan to do next, Glen?" sighed Cassel as he watched, somewhat disappointed, as Ross slapped the stopper back into place on the bottle of rum.

"I'm not quite sure yet, to be honest," replied Ross as he slowly lowered the bottle back down to the deck. "Commander Kelso and his people may have earned _my_ trust, but I am very much aware that it will take a hell-of-a lot more to convince IFOR command."

"And you don't think they'd have reason to be skeptical?" shot back Cassel flatly. "We've spent the last two years watching our best and brightest, good friends, go off to be slaughtered by the damned Chigs, the last thing we should be doing is rolling out the red carpet to a group of supposed 'refugees' who might just…"

Cassel was interrupted mid-sentence by the sound of somewhat pounding on the hatch.

"Who's at the hatch?" snapped Ross, his tone once more resonating with command presence.

"Chief Martin, Commodore," came the somewhat muffled voice from the other side of the hatch. "Escorting Commander Kelso from the _Galactica_, sir."

"A 'Commander', huh?" muttered Cassel somewhat derisively.

"Behave, Bob," replied Ross evenly. "See him in, Chief Martin."

A moment later, the hatchway opened as Chief Martin ushered Commander Kelso into the conference room.

Standing up, Commodore Ross extended his hand out to Kelso.

Cassel, his expression plainly dubious, took a few extra moments to stand.

Though by his expression he was clearly preoccupied, Commander Kelso nevertheless managed a cordial grin as he took hold of Commodore Ross' hand in a firm, brisk handshake.

As he let go of Kelso's hand, Ross noted that per his instruction the Commander had already been given a wireless headset, presumably by Chief Martin. With a viable translation computer now in hand, improvements to the entire setup were now being made in babysteps; instead of being hardwired to a single computer terminal, the translator interface had now been set up to operate through the _Saratoga_'s wireless LAN network. Reaching over to a pair of similar headsets lying on the table, Ross slipped one into place over his own ears, then somewhat insistently motioned for Cassel to do likewise with the other set as he turned back to Commander Kelso.

"Commander Kelso, this is Commodore Robert Cassel," said Ross evenly as he motioned over at Cassel. "The _Lexington_ and the Twelfth Fleet are under his command."

With that, Cassel deigned himself to at least exchange a formal handshake with Kelso across the table, his outward expression remaining decidedly dubious.

"First and foremost, Commander, how's your wounded ship doing?" sighed Commodore Ross as he settled back into his own chair.

"She sustained some pretty heavy damage to her starboard flight pod," sighed Commander Kelso as he slowly settled into a seat across from Commodore Ross. "We're still taking stock of our casualties, but I want to thank you for the medical support you've provided."

"Of course," nodded Ross. "Some of your people were pretty badly injured, but in general our docs are fairly optimistic about their chances for recovery."

"Nevertheless, our Chief Medical Officer, Major Lefler, wanted to extend her personal appreciation for the assistance," replied Kelso as he leaned forward onto the conference table. "Without the aid and experience of your trauma teams, the toll could have been still higher."

"Did you have an opportunity to visit with your wounded yet?" asked Ross evenly.

"Briefly," muttered Kelso as he absently reached up and massaged the back of his neck. "They were all sedated, couldn't talk; probably for the best considering the severity of the burns they suffered."

Looking back over at Ross, Kelso took in a deep breath.

"There's something else," he muttered, hesitating a bit as he held Ross' gaze. "Before now, we didn't really have the time, or even the ability to broach the subject, but I wanted to take this opportunity to return something to you and your people."

"Return something?" muttered Ross, his expression contorting somewhat. "What is it you wanted to return, exactly?"

"A body," sighed Kelso hesitantly, watching Ross' expression very carefully, gauging his expression. "Before we made contact with you one of our recon ships was out searching for resources when it stumbled across a large debris field, presumably one of the ships your forces have lost these last several months, it was really the first inkling we had that you even existed."

"I see," muttered Ross, glancing over at Cassel for a moment, himself trying to gauge his old friend's reaction. "And you found this body amid the debris field?"

At that, Kelso nodded slightly.

"Our CMO did perform an autopsy to determine how he died, but I assure you we tried to be as respectful as possible," continued Kelso, his gaze settling in on the two empty shot glasses sitting on the table. "I have a full Marine honor detail down with our Raptor ready to turn the body over to you along with all his personal effects. We also prepared a chart with the location of the debris field itself."

"Well, I thank you for returning him to us, Commander," sighed Ross soberly as he looked back over at Kelso. "As you can no doubt imagine, being able to let his family know definitively what happened to him might allow them to find some closure."

"I certainly can, Commodore," replied Kelso weakly as he recalled the picture they'd found in the man's effects, his gaze not leaving the empty glasses as the thought passed through his mind.

Noting how Kelso's gaze continued to rest on the two empty shot glasses on the table, as well as the clearly fatigued look in the man's eyes, Commodore Ross wordlessly reached down and produced a third shot glass, quickly topping it off before sliding it towards Kelso.

Taking hold of the shot glass, silently appreciative, Kelso downed the shot of rum.

"Damn," sighed Kelso as he slowly set the glass back down. "Has a bit of a bite to it."

"It does indeed," replied Ross, holding the bottle almost lovingly for a moment.

"You do a lot of drinking, Commander?" asked Cassel, smirking a bit.

Although the translated voice was still decidedly synthesized in nature, Commander Kelso was no doubt able to pick up on the somewhat derisive tone in Cassel's actual voice.

While he gave Cassel a somewhat curious glance over the comment, Commander Kelso refrained from actually saying anything in response, instead he merely sat there, gently playing with the empty shot glass in his hands.

"You'll have to forgive my compatriot," began Ross as he cast a warning glance over at Cassel. "He's not entirely convinced of your origins."

"I think your 'story' is a bunch of bullshit," interjected Cassel flatly.

"Well, I suppose I can at least understand Commodore Cassel's skepticism," began Kelso as he leaned back into his seat. "After all, to us, Earth was little more than a legend, a _myth_ before we came across that debris field and Commodore Ross' fleet."

"So Ross tells me," muttered Cassel. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to just point out on a chart _where_ your home worlds are for us?"

"We can't, regrettably," sighed Commander Kelso as he slowly spun the empty shot glass; the way the light was playing through the glass a quiet distraction to his overwhelmed thoughts. "As I explained to Commodore Ross, and I presume he also relayed to you, the only reason we're in this region of space at all is because of a massive navigational error; we don't know where the Colonies are."

"Awfully convenient," muttered Cassel.

"Bob!" snapped Ross, his tone a clear warning this time.

"With respect to your concerns, Commodore Cassel, I'm not here to defend myself or my people from any accusations," interjected Commander Kelso flatly as he let go of the glass and refocused on the conversation. "I've got a wounded ship and enough casualties to keep my own as well as _Saratoga_'s trauma teams working for weeks; burns, vacuum exposure; I'm sure you'll agree that _those_ men and women certainly have nothing to prove."

Commander Kelso's retort, blunt as it was seemed to hit Cassel like a punch to the gut; for a moment, the newly arrived Commodore couldn't even bring himself to look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he finally muttered. "Losing good men and women in battle; I can certainly empathize with that."

"We both can," interjected Ross solemnly. "The question remains; how should we proceed? The Banū Mūsā wormhole will be open in thirty-eight hours. As the three most senior officers of our respective fleets, I think we should have a firm game plan in place when it does."

"Well, our position hasn't changed," sighed Commander Kelso, gently rubbing his eyes as he leaned back more fully into his seat. "Right here, right now, the best chance for the survival our refugee population lies with reaching Earth and requesting asylum there."

"Unfortunately, it may not be as simple a prospect as you'd hope," countered Commodore Ross. "I don't even think the UN Assembly has rules in place for, or more to the point has even _contemplated_ something like this before."

"Still, with the finite supplies at our disposal, we have no choice but to try," replied Commander Kelso evenly.

"Bureaucracy aside, IFOR might be too preoccupied by what _we've_ discovered once we get back," began Commodore Cassel, abruptly stopping as he glanced back across the table at Commander Kelso. "But then again, maybe now is not the best time for this conversation."

"Bob, I know you have your doubts about Commander Kelso, but…" began Commodore Ross evenly.

"No, Glen, what we found out is _big_," interjected Cassel flatly. "Ultra-compartmentalized 'Big'."

Taking a deep breath, Ross looked from Cassel to Kelso.

Over the years, indeed throughout his entire Navy career, Commodore Glen van Ross had played the game, both in peace and in war, decidedly by the book.

But he was also a pragmatic man who was all too keenly aware that sometimes the ones writing the pages in that book were often men and women far removed from the practical realities of the front.

And to his mind, even in an era of interstellar warfare, one thing still seemed to hold true; there were few secrets kept in fighting holes.

"Six months now we've been out here, without supply, without relief," sighed Ross finally, slowly reaching once more for the bottle sitting on the deck beside his chair. "Frankly, I'm not all that concerned if IFOR _has_ a problem with you passing on information that could ensure the survival of this fleet, of all our fleets. I have little use for those who might second-guess combat decisions from the safety of some cushy armchair at the Pentagon…"

With that, Ross' voice trailed off as he slowly poured out three more neat shots of rum.

"To tall ships," repeated Ross evenly as he once more lifted his shot in salute.

"And to the brave crews that man them," offered Commander Kelso as he too raised his glass.

With two shots poised in salute, the two of them, Commodore Ross and Commander Kelso sat looking at Cassel.

With a slight snort, Commodore Cassel reached out, slowly picked up the third shot glass, looked at it, then shook his head and likewise raised it up.

"Then may the paper-pushers who second-guess us die of paper-cuts," he said.

With that, all three officers tossed back their respective shots, all three glasses slamming back down onto the table top in near unisons.

"So what's this news you spoke of?" asked Ross as he placed the stopper back in the bottle.

"After we sent you the warning about the Chigs, we picked up a lone contact on LIDAR," began Cassel evenly. "One Chig fighter. At first we thought it was some sort of kamikaze deal, suicide run or the like. But as we locked it up in our sights it began sending us a message in rough Morse code."

"Nothing unusual there, Chigs have used Morse code before," began Ross, his tone skeptical. "I hope you blasted that bird from the sky."

"Not quite," replied Cassel, raising his eyebrow slightly. "The Chigs aboard the fighter surrendered to us, unconditionally. All three of them are in _Lexington_'s brig right now."

"Did you check them for explosives?" asked Ross. "The 'peace envoy' they sent over to us turned out to be a suicide bomber; explosive polymers had been intermeshed with the Chig's armor."

"No worry there, they let us removed their armor, helmets, the whole deal, without any resistance," continued Cassel. "All three are sitting in their Chiggy BVD's, pasty skin exposed to the world."

"Now that _is_ interesting," muttered Ross, leaning in a bit over the table. "Chigs have had us on the run ever since Roundhammer collapsed; did they say _why_ they were surrendering?"

"Oh, they _did_ indeed," grinned Cassel, gently nodding his head. "Apparently the Faustian deal the Chigs had with the Silicates finally came back to bite them in the ass; bit them in a big way."

"Are these the same 'Silicates' that struck the _Proteus_?" asked Commander Kelso evenly.

"Oh, yeah," continued Cassel as he looked over at Ross. "Remember the AI's mantra; 'take a chance', right? Well they took a chance, took a _big_ chance; overthrew the entire command hierarchy of the Chig military."

"_What_?" sputtered Ross, quite literally shocked.

"Seems the Silicates deployed a series of biological weapons onto that sacred moon the Chigs are so protective of," continued Cassel, half-laughing as he again shook his head. "They're holding the most holy of Chig holies _hostage_."

"And the Chigs you took prisoner are the ones that told you this?" asked Commodore Ross, his tone very near to awed.

"Gave up the information without us having to so much as bend a fingernail," replied Cassel, his gaze firmly on Commodore Ross. "That's why the bastards have been so active; they're not the ones calling the shots anymore, damned AI's are."

"Keeping in mind that I'm a newcomer to this situation, I have a question," began Kelso evenly. "Why is this alien moon so important?"

"The Chigs, their entire race, go to one particular moon in their home system to procreate," replied Ross evenly as he continued to mull over what Cassel had said. "If the Silicates wiped out life there, or rendered it uninhabitable, then potentially the entire Chig race would be facing extinction."

"And _that's_ why they went on the offensive," nodded Cassel. "Silicates staged a coup, took control of the war and gave them their marching orders."

"That _is_ big news, Bob," sighed Ross as his mind continued to swim with all the potential problems and pitfalls.

"Tip of the iceberg, my friend," sighed Cassel, himself silently wishing his shot glass was perpetually full. "While they've had the regular Chig forces blitzkrieging across our lines, throwing us back to Sol, the Silicates themselves have been working behind the lines to develop something with which to strike back at Earth itself."

"Like those stealth ships that struck _Proteus_?" asked Commander Kelso pointedly.

"Probably," replied Cassel as he looked up from the empty glass. "Now mind you, these prisoners are just a couple of straight pilots, grunts like anyone else, but from what they've been able to tell our interrogation team, it seems clear the Silicates have some pretty ambitious plans in the works."

Taking a deep breath, Cassel suddenly settled back into his seat, his whole demeanor growing solemn.

"In fact, it's so important, I've pretty much had to abandon my original reason for seeking you out, Glen," continued Cassel as he gently cracked his knuckles.

"I thought you came here to link up with us for the trip through Banū Mūsā?"

"No, I originally had something a bit more…dicey…in mind."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

Taking a deep breath, Commodore Cassel stood up from his seat and slowly paced his way down towards the far end of the conference room.

"Before the general retreat was sent out across the wire, we tried to make a breakthrough to our garrison on Ixion," began Commodore Cassel, his back to both Ross and Kelso. "The Chigs were able to repel us, but we'd…_I'd…_hoped that with your fleet's help we still might have a chance to get those men up before pulling back to Earth. But now…"

His voice trailing off, Cassel gently shook his head for a moment.

"That was nearly six months ago, Bob," began Ross evenly, his tone sympathetic. "How do you even know there's anyone left on Ixion to retrieve?"

"Why the hell do you think it's taken us this long to extricate?" replied Cassel, his hands, clasped firmly behind his back, the way he was wringing them a clear indication of the tension that was working its way through the man's body. "Every twenty-four hours, like clockwork, we've been receiving a radio update from planetside. I just couldn't yet bring myself to _leave_ them behind while they were still calling out…"

His head dipping a bit, Cassel just stood there for a moment, silent, his back to Ross and Kelso.

"With our fleets combined, we might have had a chance at making one good breakthrough, get to them and get 'em off that rock," continued Cassel as he slowly made his way back to his seat, dropping down into it heavily. "But this is important information, I know, and IFOR _needs_ it. I just hate the idea of leaving those men and women behind to die."

For his part, Commodore Ross could more than empathize with what Cassel was feeling for he too had been forced to leave men behind before.

Even before the war had taken so drastic a turn against the Earth forces, Commodore Glen van Ross had been forced to leave over twenty-five thousand men and women behind on Demios. For nearly four months those forces had struggled, fought, survived on less than nothing, with little tangible hope in their minds of retrieval.

Ironically, Ross' fleet had been withdrawn from Demios in order to _take_ Ixion.

After a truly brutal fight, Ixion had been secured, and with that battle over Ross and the Fifteenth Fleet returned to Demios. Of the twenty-five thousand men and women they'd been forced to leave behind, only a little over three thousand survivors were left to recover by the time the Fifteenth Fleet returned.

Now it had all apparently been for naught; Demios was long ago back in enemy hands, and Ixion was on the verge of becoming the twenty-first century equivalent of Bataan and Corregidor.

"Any idea how many people may be left down there?" asked Ross, his tone somber.

"Six, maybe seven thousand, numbers are sketchy," replied Cassel, shaking his head. "They've intentionally kept their reports vague to confuse the enemy."

With that, Cassel let out a long, heavy sigh.

"We're in pretty bad shape as it is, Bob," continued Ross after a few moments. "We have less than half an air wing left, fleet wide. Some of our ships have been hit hard so many times they're being held together by little more than prayers and scotch tape. The odds are pretty long against us being able to engage in a successful offensive action, especially since we're so low on fuel."

With that, both Ross and Cassel fell silent, somber.

"Maybe not," said Commander Kelso finally.

As if both men had entirely forgotten he was in the room, both Ross and Cassel glanced over at Commander Kelso, his expression clearly lost in thought.

"You say 'breakthrough', as in the alien fleet has instituted a blockade?" continued Kelso as he look across to Cassel.

Cassel simply nodded.

"In system or elsewhere?"

"No, not in system, but out along one of the major approach routes," replied Cassel. "They've deployed a number of fighter-picket groups, recon in case we attempted a wide approach, but the Chig fleet is clustered in a blocking position several hours out from Ixion itself."

"And in system?"

"One battleship in orbit for support of ground operations," continued Cassel.

"Your troops on surface, are they in one particular region or are they scattered?" asked Kelso.

"Most are clustered in company or battalion strength units, but all are still holding-up near a captured Chig citadel on one of the northern continents."

"What are you thinking, Commander?" asked Commodore Ross flatly.

"Just that you might not have to leave those men behind after all," replied Kelso as he leaned back thoughtfully. "You say the blockade is several hours out from the planet, how many exactly?"

"Ten hours, conservative, seven if they threw fuel conservation right out the window," replied Cassel.

"Which they're likely to do if the Silicates are the ones calling the shots now," interjected Ross. "The Silicates apparently had no trouble ordering two Chig fleets on suicide runs at the _Galactica_, or those three fighters into ramming _Proteus_."

"Seven hours," muttered Kelso thoughtfully, his gaze wandering as his fingers gently drummed on the tabletop. "Any reason to pull heavy equipment, or can I assume the troops themselves are the priority here?"

"The men, certainly," replied Cassel, leaning in towards the table, his attention firmly on Kelso. "Are you _really_ offering to help retrieve our forces from Ixion?"

"It's the kind of operation _Galactica_ was designed for, actually," replied Kelso with an almost nonchalant shrug. "Punch through deployed orbital defenses, establish aerospace superiority and support long term troop operations on surface. I'm just trying to think of how we could pull it off…"

"Well maybe if you clue us in on some of your concerns we can help find the solutions," said Ross evenly.

"I'm thinking that your ships stay here, cover and defend our civilian convoy," began Commander Kelso evenly. "My ships, _Enceladus_ and _Savitri_ could also remain to assist in that effort, as well as _Proteus_ while they continue with their repairs."

"By my counts that leaves you with three ships," said Ross evenly.

"Would three ships _really _be enough to break through the Chig blockade?" asked Cassel.

"Not _through_ it," corrected Kelso, gently shaking his head. "Jump _past_ it."

"_Jump_?" muttered Cassel, his expression utterly confused.

Shaking his own head, Ross snorted slightly.

"That's right, you don't know yet," began Ross, laughing slightly. "Commander Kelso's ships are capable of instantaneous faster-than-light travel."

"More precisely our FTL systems can move us instantly from one point in space to another, so long as we have accurate jump coordinates," said Commander Kelso evenly, his mind still playing through the scenarios in his thoughts.

"How the _hell_ does that work?" sputtered Cassel.

"Too complex to go into right now, and frankly, it doesn't matter," sighed Kelso as he continued to mull the situation over in his mind.

"It works, though, far more effective than Eckerly drives," interjected Ross. "Really throws the Chigs for a loop, too."

"The trouble is the extraction itself," continued Kelso, at least leaning in towards the table. "_Galactica_ has the space to carry them, at least till we get back, but it will take a while to pull that many troops up from the surface, never mind all the other problems of communication, directing them…."

"What about liaisons?" interjected Ross. "Transfer some of my people over to your ship; they might be able to direct our troops, keep them out of the way."

"That could work," nodded Commander Kelso. "But this may take more than just a few officers herding your people around. You have any paper?"

Almost instantly, Commodore Ross slid a blank pad over to Kelso.

"Okay, here's what I see," began Kelso as he almost feverishly scribbled down several lines on the page. "First off, we should get a few dozen of your people over to _Galactica_, get them oriented enough to be able to take your troops from the hangar decks to the berthing areas, maybe even slap up a few signs in your language to help. We're also likely to need enough people to put on almost every ship we send down to the surfacee, keep the troops we retrieve calm during the transit back up to _Galactica_."

"Our techs have managed to install the translation software onto a few laptop computers," offered Commodore Ross. "Those plus a few sets of portable comm-gear will probably be useful."

"Well, we won't be able to link them into a network like you have aboard _Saratoga_ but having them will go a long way towards streamlining things communication-wise," muttered Kelso, nodding his head a bit as he continued to scribble out notes.

"Next problem?" asked Ross evenly.

"A bit trickier," replied Kelso, tilting his head slightly. "Your troops on ground see _my_ planes in the air they're probably not going to come out running, especially if they are under fire…"

"Unless they also see our planes, planes they're used to seeing flying alongside them," continued Ross, his own mind following the logic.

"Planes those men will be damned _glad_ to see," added Cassel emphatically.

"How many fighters do you think you can spare without putting your fleet at risk, Commodore Ross?" asked Kelso pointedly.

"Since some of your ships are remaining behind to help with the defensive operations, we should be able to send along a couple squadrons," replied Ross evenly. "We can load them with ordnance for ground attack too, it will allow them to soften or distract any enemy on the ground while we pull the troops up."

"What about transports?" asked Kelso pointedly. "Even with all my fleet's Raptors and shuttles, I'm still not sure we have enough planes to bring up that many troops in only seven hours. Frankly, your ships can carry more people; the more transports we have, the less time it will take for the retrieval."

"We'd have to hold a couple ISSCV's here for SAR birds, but we can easily task a few dozen from throughout the fleet for this effort," replied Ross as Kelso scribbled down a few more lines.

"But wait, are we sure our birds will be able to operate from your ship?" asked Cassel. "How do you plan to move them, or launch them, or offload the troops for that matter once they are in orbit?"

"Your ships are bigger, but we have a few larger lifts that can accommodate them," replied Kelso flatly. "As for flight-ops, best way would probably be to hot-deck them initially as we go in. Four separate landing decks, we can prestage your planes at the ready, if they launch in sequence, all planes can be in the air in a matter of minutes; damn, we'll need a flight deck liaison as well."

"Done," snapped Ross.

"Getting the planes into the air isn't the problem, landing them could be, at least for a few," continued Kelso as he recalled the unorthodox landing Hawkes had made aboard _Galactica_. "Your transports have already shown they can operate from our decks without difficulty, but those tires on your fighters might be trouble; how proficient are your people at low-grav, low-speed landings?"

"Our Hammerheads can simply use their VTOL capability," muttered Ross, pausing as he caught a somewhat inquisitive glance from Kelso. "Vertical Take-Off and Landing; they won't need a runway, just a spot to settle onto, and it should work well-enough in a low-grav environment."

"Wait, what about fuel?" offered Commodore Cassel. "That many birds transiting in-and-out of orbit, they're going to get thirsty."

"We can load a few collapsible fuel bladders and pump equipment into some of the spare ISSCV containers," replied Ross evenly. "Transfer a couple dozen of those over, they should provide enough fuel for an op like this."

"Wait, hold on, this is all going way too fast," interjected Cassel, shaking his head. "I mean, liaisons, paper signs taped to bulkheads, damn, are we _seriously_ thinking about trying something this _complex_ when we can't even _talk_ to one another without some damned headset stuck in our ear?"

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso gently set the pen down onto the pad, a pad that was now covered with words that to Ross and Cassel were unintelligible, and slowly leaned back in his seat.

"Either we try or we don't, Bob," muttered Ross. "In a little over thirty-seven hours the Banū Mūsā wormhole will open, and we'll have an hour window, at most, to make our transit. After that, it will be three weeks till the next forecasted opening. We simply don't have the fuel to wait around that long."

"And there's almost _no_ chance IFOR command will send another fleet through for a rescue once we get back," sighed Commodore Cassel, his tone resigned. "As soon as they learn the AI's have overthrown Chiggy central command, they'll be too busy shitting their pants; bolstering Earth's defenses will take high priority over rescuing a bunch of grunts."

Hearing the resigned tone in Cassel's voice, Commodore Ross and Commander Kelso sat there for a moment, waiting.

Taking a deep breath, Commodore Cassel finally looked back over at Kelso.

"Commodore Ross and I go way back, we've been friends a long time," began Cassel evenly. "Now he says he trusts you. But if _I'm_ going to trust you, I want you to tell me something, just _one_ thing; why?"

"Why am I willing to try this?" muttered Kelso, his gaze never leaving Cassel's questioning gaze.

"Exactly, I mean is this just some PR thing, doing good deeds so that the UN will grant your people asylum?"

"There's that," admitted Commander Kelso with a slight shrug. "But I'm not about to say that it's the only or even the most pressing reason."

"Then what is?"

"Whether you believe our 'story' or not doesn't change the fact that only a few months ago I bore witness to the outright slaughter of well over twenty _billion_ people, the utter annihilation of _our_ civilization. We escaped with just a handful of survivors, a small _fraction_ of a handful."

Pausing to take a deep, steadying breath, Commander Kelso reached up and rubbed his tired eyes.

"We rescued as many as we could, but at the end of the day, we had no choice but to flee," said Commander Kelso evenly. "The only thing that allows me to sleep at night, however fitfully, is the knowledge that we don't know how many people we were forced to leave behind. It was an indefinite, anomalous, there were no contacts…"

Leaning once more in over the pad of paper, Commander Kelso quickly scribbled down several more lines, notes presumably.

"But here, _now_, you _do_ have contact, you _know_ how many will die if we do _nothing_," continued Kelso. "Now I don't know about you, Commodore Cassel, but I already lose enough sleep at night thinking about the loss of those I _couldn't_ save, I'd hate to simply abandon without so much as an attempt those I _might _still be able to save."

Shaking his head, Commander Kelso's voice slowly trailed off.

"But, my feelings aside, I will defer to your judgment, Commodore Ross, Commodore Cassel," he began once more after a few silent moments. "I'm willing to help with an attempt, unless you feel it's not worth the risk."

With that, a palpable tension settled in over the room.

An anxious back and forth of silence, subtle body language…

Appraisal…

Expectation…

From the expression on the man's face, Commander Sean Kelso couldn't be certain if Commodore Cassel had accepted his explanation; sometimes even the boldest sincerity couldn't sway a skeptic.

Finally, it was Commodore Ross who broke the silence.

"Your men, your call, Bob."

Lowering his head for a moment, Commodore Cassel began gently shaking his head.

For a moment, Kelso couldn't avoid feeling as though he had somehow failed, that is, until Bob Cassel looked back up at him, his expression clearly one of resolve.

"I have just one condition, Commander Kelso," he began evenly.

"What's the condition?"

"I'm going with you," replied Cassel as he slowly extended his hand across the table.

Likewise reaching out, a clear sense of relief coming over him, Commander Kelso clasped Cassel's hand in a firm handshake.

"So, what else can you tell me about this 'Ixion'?"

* * *

><p><strong>Battlestar <strong>_**Pacifica  
><strong>_**Banū Mūsā Wormhole**

Having long since grown tired of staring up at the DRADIS screens in CIC, Adrian Kelso slowly made his way through the corridor.

He had no particular destination in mind; he simply felt a compulsion to keep moving.

The more his feet moved, the less time his body had to tense up.

Or so he'd hoped.

His son had departed with _Galactica_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ as well as a large contingent of the Earth fleet's planes and personnel almost four hours ago.

And while he tried to assuage himself with the knowledge that thus far Colonial military hardware had displayed a decided, almost wholly lopsided superiority over the aliens, the elder Kelso couldn't help but caution himself with the knowledge of what had happened to the _Proteus_.

At last report, the casualty count from the wounded Combatstar stood at one hundred and twenty-nine dead, another two hundred and four seriously wounded.

Most were expected to recover; a few were clinging to life by a thread.

The situation for him felt all the worse considering the fact that this mission was darkened; no direct wireless contact, the planet was too far away, and no courier Raptors.

In plain terms, either _Galactica_ and her task force would return, or they wouldn't.

And all the while, Adrian Kelso knew he would be practically torturing himself with all the thoughts of what _might_ go wrong, _could_ go wrong, _didn't_ get accounted for…

To what end?

Age was supposed to imbue strength and wisdom; at least that was the general belief.

But at the moment, Adrian Kelso felt anything but strong and decidedly unwise.

All he felt was concern for his son.

Would the gods, _could_ the gods be so cruel as to allow them to come this far, only to steal his son away now?

Frakers had certainly let the Colonies suffer a cruel enough fate at the hands of the Cylons; what was one more lone mortal to them?

So lost in thought was he that when Adrian stepped up to a cross-corridor he barely avoided being run down by two blurs of motion he'd barely caught out of the corner of his eye.

"Joshua, Alexander; would you two watch where you're going?" sputtered the decidedly familiar if presently indignant voice of Mike Franklin's daughter, Jaime Petorran.

Catching his startled breath, Adrian looked down into the remorseful eyes of Mike Franklin's twin grandsons.

"Sorry, Commander," muttered Joshua; at least he thought it was Joshua.

"Yeah, we didn't see you," continued Alexander; or maybe _that_ one was Joshua.

"Get over here," barked Jaime Petorran, snapping her fingers crisply enough that it echoed faintly through the corridor.

Chuckling slightly, Adrian lost himself in the momentary distraction as he watched the twins slowly shuffle back over to their mother's side.

"It's okay, Jaime, no harm done," began Adrian as he too stepped over to her.

"_This_ time, maybe," replied Jaime as she cast that truly scathing 'mother's glare' at her two wayward sons. "But the way these two keep launching themselves off down these hallways, jumping down the stairs, you think they'd been shot off from one of those blasted slingshot things on the hangar deck."

"They're called catapults, mom," corrected Joshua.

"You keep giving me lip, I'll 'catapult' that butt of yours up between your ears," warned Jaime as she waggled a finger directly at the boy's nose.

"Oh, give them a break, Jaime," came another voice, this one from her sister, the now very pregnant Gianne Franklin, as she slowly hobbled her way down a small flight of stairs.

"Oh, gods, Gianne, here let me help you," sputtered Adrian as he quickly stepped over and extended his arm for her to grab hold of.

Taking hold of his outstretched arm, Gianne made her way down the last couple steps, breathing heavily.

"Oh, I remember what _that_ kind of breathing means," beamed Adrian as he watched Gianne grimace slightly. "How far apart are they, young lady?"

"Ten minutes or so," replied Gianne, taking deep breaths as she slowly made her way forward, her hand still clasped onto Adrian's arm.

"Has someone called Mike, yet?" asked Kelso as he continued to lead Gianne.

"I told dad to just meet us at sickbay," said Gianne as she again grimaced with the pain of an oncoming contraction.

"That wasn't ten minutes," groaned Adrian, doing his best to ignore Gianne's decidedly vice-like grip on his forearm. "Oh, sweetie, this is ridiculous; you need to sit down."

"No, no, I just need to get to sickbay before I start having second thoughts about this," moaned Gianne as she breathed through the contraction.

"Little late for that one, Ginny," muttered Jaime as she too reached out to support Gianne.

"Just do this old man a favor and rest for a moment before you give me a heart-attack," said Adrian as he slowly steered her towards a crate staged against the corridor bulkhead.

Her breathing labored, heavy, Gianne relented, simply nodding her head, slowly settling in against the crate.

"Okay, maybe just for a moment," she finally sighed.

As Gianne caught her breath, Adrian looked off along the corridor, catching sight of a phone just a couple meters away.

"Okay, Joshua, Alexander, listen up; I have a mission for you two," said Adrian as he looked over at the boys.

While it was clear from the expressions on their faces that the twins would rather have done just about anything but hang around with their mother and pregnant aunt, the moment Adrian said that he had a 'mission' for them, their young eyes lit up.

"Ready, Commander," snapped Alexander, Joshua beside him giving a quick salute as they both stood eagerly awaiting their apparent assignment.

"Look over there, you see that phone there?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you two to go over to that phone, pick up the receiver and hit the large red button on the bottom."

"Yes, sir," snapped both boys enthusiastically, the two of them instantly darting off down the corridor, indeed, almost tripping each other, intentionally, attempting to prevent one another from being the first to reach the phone.

While Joshua was able to lift the receiver from its place first, it was Alexander who managed to hit the red button.

"Okay, do you hear a voice on the phone line?"

"Yes," muttered Joshua, his attention shifting for a moment. "Hold on a second, the Commander is talking to me, ma'am; my Aunt Ginny is having a baby in the hallway."

For a moment, Adrian, Jaime, even Gianne couldn't help but grin slightly at the innocent forthrightness.

"Okay, sir, she's asking where we are," called Joshua.

"Okay, right there above the phone, those letters and numbers on the wall, do you see them?" called Adrian as he pointed up at the stenciled location code right above the phone. "Read those letters and numbers to the person on the phone."

While Alexander continued to fidget impatiently beside him, Joshua slowly read off the location code. When he was done, Joshua looked back over at Adrian.

"What should I say now?" he asked.

"Tell her exactly what I tell you," began Adrian. "Tell her I need a litter team and a medic and to prepare sickbay for a delivery."

Nodding, Joshua turned back to the phone as he repeated, more-or-less, what Adrian had told him.

"Okay, she says they're coming, Commander," called Joshua.

"Okay, good, good job you two, now hang up the phone," smiled Adrian as he gave the two of them a thumbs-up.

"Oh, really, that's not necessary, I can make it really," muttered Gianne as she made an effort to get back to her feet just as another contraction started.

"Ah, ah, you stay right there, young lady," said Adrian evenly. "My ship, my rules, and I say you're getting the luxury ride."

"I don't know much about luxury," groaned Gianne, her face contorting as she took several deep breaths, a layer of sweat forming on her brow. "Oh, gods, Jaime, you didn't tell me labor would be this bad."

"The _hell_ I didn't, Ginny," chuckled Jaime as she held onto Gianne's hand. "You should just be thanking the gods you're not having twins."

"Oh, don't even fraking joke about something like that," moaned Gianne as she grimaced once more in pain.

"It's okay, sweetie, you're doing just fine," muttered Adrian as he took continued to hold onto Gianne's hand.

Looking up, somewhat frantically, Adrian Kelso was decidedly relieved when he caught sight of the requested litter team all but exploding around a corner.

"Okay, you're ride is almost here," he grinned as the medical team raced up, nearly mowing down a couple gawking bystanders in the process.

As she stepped up, the medic began all but bombarding Gianne with questions as the litter team lowered the gurney so Gianne could more easily slide herself onto it.

With a very gentle if urgent effort, Gianne was transferred over to the gurney, the medic quickly slipping an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose as she continued to fire off questions at a rapid rate, so rapid, in fact, it seemed as if Gianne was struggling not just with the contractions but with the effort of trying to keep the questions straight enough in her mind to answer.

"Okay, let's move!" snapped the medic as the litter team stabilized and locked the gurney.

"You're gonna be fine, Gianne," called Adrian as he watched the litter team, the medic, Gianne, Jaime, and the suddenly more enthusiastic Joshua and Alexander race off down the corridor.

"Oh, gods, I wish Lee was here, Jamie," sobbed Gianne as the gurney rolled off down the corridor, her hand firmly clasped around Jaime's. "I wish he was here to see our baby."

"I know, Ginny," muttered Jaime, gently wiping a bit at the film of sweat on the woman's face.

A moment later, the cluster of racing bodies disappeared off around the corner, the lingering echo of Gianne's voice the only reminder of their recent presence.

"Oh, gods damn you Leland Joseph Adama!" burst Gianne, her voice all but a scream reverberating off the bulkheads as she was gripped by yet another hard contraction.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

God help him, he knew he had tried.

Yet try as he might, Commodore Glen van Ross hadn't been able to get even a wink of sleep since the _Galactica_ had departed with her escorts for Ixion nearly ten hours ago.

Conservative estimates had been that the operation would take approximately nine hours to complete, so technically, the _Galactica_ wasn't necessarily overdue.

Nevertheless, with each second that passed, with each agonizingly slow movement of the hands around the clock on the wall, Commodore Glen van Ross felt a sense of foreboding.

Was this the let down he'd initially feared, the reason he'd been so skeptical and unwilling to trust, that these powerful warships had arrived, only to have three of their number culled away, fate unknown?

No, he could drive himself mad with all the speculation, the pointless rumination; in the here and now, the plain fact of the matter was that Commodore Glen van Ross still had a duty to perform.

Commander Kelso had offered up the _Galactica_ in the effort to recover Commodore Bob Cassel's trapped men from Ixion. So long as he could hold out hope that _Galactica_ was performing that mission, Commodore Ross would loyally and diligently carry out the duty of protecting not only Fifteenth Fleet, not only the battered remnants of the Twelfth Fleet, but the safety and security of Commander Kelso's civilian fleet as well.

At least he wasn't tasked with that mission alone.

As promised, Kelso had left behind three of his own combat ships, _Enceladus_, _Savitri_ and _Proteus_, and while the _Proteus_ was still in the midst of repairing her combat damage, Ross had to admit it was still an impressive escort detail.

"_Proteus_ is reporting that they have recovered their CAP on their operational deck, Commodore," called Petty Officer Brooks. "_Savitri_ has her replacement fighters in the air and assuming station."

"Very well," muttered Ross as he looked over at the LIDAR display. "Does the _Lexington_ have her birds up as well?"

"Affirmative, sir," replied Brooks with a slight nod.

Letting out a long sigh, Ross casually crossed his arms as he continued to stare at the LIDAR screen.

Maybe if he stared at it long enough…

"Contact!" snapped Lieutenant Rosary, the words escaping him mid-yawn. "LIDAR contact direct off the bow, range one hundred MSK's."

His eyes never leaving the display, Ross easily saw the contact, no, correction, _three_ contacts.

A tingle running up along his spine, Ross' mood buoyed up quickly.

The contacts had certainly appeared with the same characteristic 'suddenness'…

"Verify signatures against the known LIDAR profiles, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir," replied Rosary as he quickly ran a series of cross-checks. "Verified, Commodore, it _is_ the _Galactica_ and her escorts."

Spurred by the confirmation, Ross quickly stepped up behind Petty Officer Brooks.

"Give me that mic," said Ross simply as he stretched out his hand.

Almost instantly, Brooks passed over a hand-mic to Ross, the Commodore quickly snatching it up.

"_Galactica_-Actual, this is Boss Ross; what is your status?"

For a moment, the channel, and thus the speakers overhead, were silent, the dull sound of background static hanging as thick in the air as the baited anticipation of the crewmembers manning the bridge.

"_Galactica_-Actual, I say again, this is Boss Ross; what is your current status and situation, over?"

For a moment, Ross felt his heart skip as the worst possible thought crept into his mind; dear God, had the Chigs, or worse yet, the _AI_'s managed to gain control of that beast?

As he poised his finger to transmit yet a third message, the static overhead cleared as a calm voice came through over the channel.

"_Boss Ross, this is Casper_."

With those few words, Commodore Glen van Ross couldn't help but grin widely, his entire body flooding over with relief.

'Casper' was Bob Cassel's idea of a coy secret moniker known only to Ross; as CO of the Twelfth Fleet, a fleet long since thought lost to IFOR command but now found, Bob Cassel was the 'friendly ghost'.

"We read you, Casper," began Ross as he keyed the mic again. "Can you report your current status?"

For a moment, the same unsettling silence held.

Had they not been able to make it through to Ixion?

Had the raid failed?

Had they arrived only to find that the trapped Earth forces on the surface had been slaughtered?

"_Boss Ross, this is Casper; current status; running heavy with six-thousand-plus recovered from Ixion; mission accomplished_."

With that, everyone around the _Saratoga's_ bridge, Ross included, let out a victorious cheer.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlestar <strong>_**Pacifica  
><strong>_**Port Hangar Deck**

There was no pomp, no ceremony.

Indeed, he was there on his own.

But as he reached out with his hand and quietly taped the slip of paper to the memorial wall, Commander Sean Kelso felt the act every bit as solemn as one occurring in the most holy of holy temples to the gods.

And the names on the paper, each one written down by his own hand, were every bit as sacred.

They were the names of his new war dead.

The pilots lost when they first engaged the enemy fleet, the pilots and crewmembers killed aboard _Proteus_ while battling the second alien fleet, as last, but in no way the least, the casualties they'd suffered during the rescue mission at Ixion.

In strict military terms, strictly by the numbers, they had lost a mere handful in comparison to the far greater number of human lives they had saved.

But for Commander Sean Kelso, this wasn't just about numbers.

Taking a slow step back away from the Memorial Wall, Commander Sean Kelso looked at the imposing slab of white marble with gold lettering, itself already festooned with pictures, poems, other simple slips of papers with hand-scribbled names of those lost during the fall of the Twelves Colonies, and let out a long, forlorn sigh as his gaze remained steady on this new list of the fallen.

"How many?"

The voice was barely a whisper from behind, nevertheless it cut through Commander Kelso's ruminations as crisply as a loudest of shouts.

Turning around, Sean saw his father, the elder Kelso himself lost in the somber meaning of the page taped to the memorial.

"Forty-two at Ixion," muttered Sean Kelso as he turned back to the list he had just put into place.

"Should I ask how?" sighed Adrian as he settled into place beside his son.

"Not much to tell really," replied Sean solemnly. "A few of their fighters cut in low across the atmosphere; DRADIS had trouble zeroing in on them. The hull armor took most of the punishment."

"Did they ram you like they did the _Proteus_?"

"No, not this time," muttered Sean, gently shaking his head. "I guess we should count ourselves lucky, these weren't like the stealth fighters that hit _Proteus_, but they're armed with energy-based weapons, plasma maybe, our hull plating is ablative against it but burns away under sustained barrage…"

His voice trailing off, Sean kept looking at the list he'd put into place.

"Just the perils of combat, I suppose," he finally continued, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to massage away the migraine he felt licking at the edge of his perceptions. "They fired into us amidships, peppered us along the ventral section, touched off some fires near one of the port heavy batteries; could have been much worse, DC teams were on the ball though and got it contained. We also lost some Marines on the surface too, ground engagement near one of the landing zones."

"I take it the troops you rescued are being transferred back to the Earth fleet?" asked Adrian evenly.

"Um-hmm," muttered Sean simply as he continued to gaze at the names. "It's going to be a few hours before they're all offloaded, but most seem to be either too shell-shocked or simply too grateful for being off that planet to do anything but follow the directions from the liaisons Ross sent over."

Although the two of them were by no means alone on the Port hangar deck; a good number of refugees were literally housed in the large space, still more were offering prayers at the myriad of makeshift altars and memorials that had been set up; the two of them, father and son nevertheless felt a universe apart from the people milling about the area.

"You know, we rescued over six thousand troops from the surface," sighed Sean as he dropped his hand back down to his side. "Six _thousand_, Dad. I'm an engineer; it should be about the numbers, the hard facts. We lose forty-two to save over six thousand; equitable trade, right?"

"Combat is _never_ so cut and dry, Sean," muttered Adrian, gently shaking his head. "You could've saved six _million_, could have lost only _one_ lone life, but you'd still think about that _one_. It's one of the things that make us human. Anything less…"

"And I might as well be a Cylon?"

For a moment, the thought hung there between them, heavy in the air, Major Burke's question to him rattling about in Sean Kelso's mind.

_ …At what point are the losses too great? Where do we draw the line between the survival of the Earth fleet, and the survival of our own people?..._

In spite of his own admonition to her that there should be no distinction, he nevertheless found himself wondering if he could truly bring himself to fully accept that view. Truly, what _was_ an acceptable price in lives and blood, where did one draw the line separating a necessary sacrifice for survival from a cost that was simply too high to pay?

For the time being, he didn't want to truly ask that question.

"Believe me, I changed enough of your diapers to know, you son are no Cylon," smirked Adrian, a random but deliberate attempt to avoid the pitfall of sobering reality devolving into depression.

And thank the gods, it worked; glancing over at his father, Sean couldn't help but chuckle.

As he met his son's glance, Adrian chuckled a bit as well.

Letting out a long sigh, Sean slowly cast his eyes back up at the imposing memorial, at the myriad of golden names etched in the surface.

"I keep trying to tell myself that we're doing the right thing, the _best_ thing to ensure our people's survival," began Sean evenly as his eyes passed over the names. "But the longer we're in this situation, the more people we lose, I swear I'm beginning to hear this little whisper in the back of my mind."

"And what does this whisper say, exactly?"

"That there must be some kind of way out of here, something I've missed," replied Sean evenly. "There's too much confusion right when I need some clarity the most."

As he stood looking at his son, Adrian let out a long sigh, at last reaching over and placing his hand on Sean's shoulder.

"I know what you need," he finally muttered.

"Really?" replied Sean, looking back over at his father, his expression skeptical. "What do I need, exactly?"

"Just follow me," said Adrian as he motioned his son to follow.

Curious, he did so, the two of them making their way through the makeshift encampment that occupied the majority of the former hangar deck.

Although Sean tried several times to elicit an answer from his father, Adrian's steadfast reply as the two of them made their way deeper into the _Pacifica_ was that 'he'd see'. At last surrendering to the fact that his father was not going to simply divulge whatever surprise he apparently had in store for him, Sean ceased inquiring and simply followed.

But as they continued on their way through the corridors, Commander Sean Kelso couldn't help but be struck by the general atmosphere he sensed aboard the _Pacifica_. It was hard to explain, hard to define tangibly, but in spite of the fact that the _Pacifica_ was in effect little more than a massive refugee ship, there weren't long lines of people simply milling aimlessly about in her corridors. Indeed, once one stepped away from the civilized chaos of the hangar decks, the overall mood adopted a distinct sense of purpose.

Curious…

The people Sean Kelso saw, by and large, lacked uniforms, lacked the disciplined training of actual Fleet officers and enlisted, or at least had spent a good long while removed from such regimentation, but they had still been pulled together, integrated with one another into a functional and cohesive crew.

_ Pacifica_ wasn't a Battlestar anymore, but Sean could swear, she still _felt_ like one.

And it was all because his father, Adrian Kelso, had refused to simply surrender to the seeming inevitable when the Colonies fell. He couldn't help but admire that strength in his father, couldn't help but wonder if in the end, he himself truly possessed it as well.

At last, Adrian turned, and with a grin, ushered his son into the _Pacifica_'s sickbay.

The first thought was that his father was about to lead him on some meet-and-greet with the wounded; some of the less critically wounded from the _Proteus_ had been transferred to other ships, _Pacifica_ included, to keep _Galactica_'s medical unit from being overtaxed.

But instead of taking him around to the dozen or so occupied beds that lined the medical observation ward, Adrian led his son straight towards a closed curtain encircling a bed at the far end.

Hesitant, Sean wondered just who it was or how horrible their injuries were that the curtain had been drawn around them for privacy.

That thought in mind, Sean was most decidedly surprised when he heard a gentle whimper from behind the curtain.

"Mike, you in there?" muttered Adrian as he stepped up to the curtain

"Yeah," replied a hushed voice from behind the curtain.

An instant later, the ruddy face of the _Pacifica_'s engineer popped out from behind the curtain.

"Oh, Commander, glad to have you here," beamed Mike Franklin as he caught sight of Sean.

"Dad, what's going on, why did you bring me…" began Sean, his voice trailing off as the visibly-proud Mike Franklin stepped out a little further, a neatly wrapped swaddle held protectively in his arms.

"Commander Sean Kelso," began Franklin, his tone full of pride as an honest to gods tear rolled down his cheek. "I'd like you to meet my granddaughter."

With that, the tender pink lips of the little girl parted, the barest hint of a whimper escaping her.

"Shhh, honey, shhh, it's okay, Gran'pa is here," cooed Franklin as he gently bounced the tiny bundle in his arms.

Almost entranced, Sean took a couple steps closer, a wide grin creeping across his lips.

"Congratulations, Mike," muttered Sean as he gently pulled a bit of the swaddle away to catch a glimpse of the child's face. "She's beautiful…"

"Gianne went into labor while you were at Ixion," muttered Adrian as he too huddled in around the child.

"I should offer her my congratulations as well, then," said Sean as he glanced over towards the curtain.

"Oh, she's asleep," whispered Franklin as he continued to fawn over the precious bundle in his arms.

"The hell I am," groaned a voice from behind the curtain. "I just don't want anyone to see me in such a state."

Carefully stepping back towards the curtain, Mike Franklin slowly brushed it aside as he made his way back to Gainne's bedside.

Keeping back, very much cognizant that this was, above all, a private family moment, Sean watched as Franklin slowly handed the infant back over to her mother.

Her hair a matted, sweaty mess, intravenous lines plugged into each arm, her face puffy and clearly exhausted, Gianne nevertheless seemed to glow like a goddess as she gently cradled the newborn. Tears running down her cheeks, she soothingly rocked the tiny bundle in her arms.

Watching the scene, mother and child, Commander Sean Kelso felt nothing so much as that he was most decidedly intruding upon an intimate moment. As such, Sean glanced over at his father, and with a curt head movement, motioned that they should both leave.

"Oh, wait, no, don't go," muttered Gianne weakly, her voice raspy, heavy with fatigue.

"Are you sure?" asked Sean. "We really don't want to intrude…"

"If it weren't for you and your father, we wouldn't even be here," replied Gianne evenly as she nodded her head towards the child in her arms. "Please stay."

Smiling weakly, but still somewhat uncomfortable, Sean nevertheless stayed.

It was then that he was supremely surprised when Gianne actually motioned him closer.

Hesitant, Sean stepped up beside her bed, and was shocked as Gianne slowly held out the tiny infant towards him.

"Go ahead and hold her for a moment," she smiled.

"Oh, no, I couldn't," he sputtered. "I've never held a baby, I wouldn't know how…"

"No, please, just for a second," insisted Gianne.

Glancing back over at his father, who was quite obviously bemused by the idea, the elder Kelso merely nodded for Sean to take hold of the infant.

Letting out a long breath, hesitant and somewhat resigned, Sean slowly reached out as Gianne gently placed the child in his arms.

"Careful now, there you go, use your hand to support her head," muttered Adrian, still most decidedly amused by the whole scene.

As he found himself holding the child, looking down into her innocent pink face, Commander Sean Kelso felt a most curious, and welcome, sense of serenity.

Since their escape from the Colonies, fourteen children had been born throughout the fleet, but this one, this precious little girl, was the first he had actually seen, much less held, himself.

And in that moment, enthralled with such a sense of wonder at this new life cradled in his arms, Commander Sean Kelso felt a renewed clarity, a reaffirmation.

His mission, his purpose was not just to those who had escaped the Colonies themselves, but to those, like this most fragile child, who were and would continue to be born amongst the survivors.

"What's her name?" muttered Adrian as he leaned in over his son's shoulder and looked down into the grimacing face of the infant.

"Adriana," replied Gianne lovingly.

Glancing back over at his father, Sean saw that the already wide smile on the elder Kelso's face had grown even wider.

"Okay, visiting hours are over now," chided a medic as she rolled a small basinet up beside Gianne's bed. "This young lady has been through enough without all of you treating her or her daughter like a sideshow act."

Gently lowering the small child back down into Gianne's loving arms, Sean reached his hand back out to Mike Franklin.

"Congratulations again, Mike, Gianne," smiled Sean. "Please, if there is anything I can do, just let me know."

"Thank you, Commander," replied Franklin evenly as he took hold of Sean's hand.

As both Sean and Adrian turned to leave, they were both amused when the nurse attempted to shuffle Mike Franklin out as well, only to be told in no uncertain and not very subtle terms that he was _not_ going anywhere.

Chuckling lightly as the exchange between Franklin and the medic continued, Commander Sean Kelso glanced up and saw, much to his chagrin, Captain Jordan Gaines standing near the entryway.

Gaines had come over with Kelso in order to speak with Lieutenant Attis, the detachment CO for the Marines posted to the _Pacifica_. From the wide grin on her face and the coy way she began holding her arms in front of her as though cradling something, it was embarrassingly clear that Gaines had seen him holding Adriana.

"That was so _cute_," she said demurely as Sean stepped closer.

Suddenly regretting the decision to allow her to accompany him over to the _Pacifica_, Commander Sean Kelso grinned sheepishly, simply shaking his head as he stepped by.

"Don't even start," he chuckled.


	8. Leaps of Faith

**Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Two days.

Nearly two days now, but as he stood there at the main plot table, Commander Sean Kelso looked down at his hands and almost swore he could still feel the tiny bundle of Adriana in his arms.

In fact, he was so distracted by the thought that he completely missed everything his XO, Major Tyra Burke had just said.

Looking up from his hands, Commander Kelso looked across at her expectant expression, smiling weakly.

"I'm sorry, Major, what was that?"

"Just confirming order to launch CAP and recon sortie," said Major Burke, her expression changing to one of subtle concern. "Are you all right, Commander?"

"Yes, of course, why?"

"You just seem distracted."

"Lost in my thoughts for a moment," muttered Commander Kelso dismissively as he cast his eyes up to the DRADIS overhead. "Yes, launch the CAP and Recon units."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke evenly, picking up her handset as she continued to eye him somewhat wearily.

As he watched the Vipers and Raptors sortie from _Galactica_, Commander Kelso began lightly drumming the plot table top with his fingers.

Spurred by the successful retrieval of the Earth troops from Ixion, both Commodore Ross and Commodore Cassel had agreed to do anything and everything to in turn assist Commander Kelso with bringing his refugee fleet to Earth, going so far as to offering their personal support for the Colonials' petition for asylum.

Asylum…

Just the word itself seemed to both mock as well as pinpoint-define the situation itself.

Prior to actually finding Commodore Ross' fleet, Earth itself had been little more than a myth to the Colonials, a legend only believed in by the most religiously devout who might have easily found themselves _in_ an asylum back on the Colonies.

But more to the point, the relative break in the tempo of events these last two days had allowed Commander Kelso enough time to digest just how the people of Earth would likely view the arrival of the Colonials; suspicion and disbelief.

Commodore Ross and Commodore Cassel had only been convinced by the concrete actions of Commander Kelso and the people under his command, and still even then, only to a point. Many questions remained on both sides, most especially since both his Earth fleet counterparts had quite clearly stated that to them the very origins and existence of the Colonials seemed by every measure an outright impossibility.

Commander Sean Kelso was beginning to realize that he should expect no less skepticism, indeed, could almost count on even far greater levels of skepticism upon reaching Earth itself.

But Commander Sean Kelso also knew he had to try.

For the sake of Adriana and all those like her, he had to try.

Even Commodore Ross and Commodore Cassel had agreed on that point.

As such, as their combined fleet began the journey back to Earth, the three senior officers had woven together a very practical, and for all concerned, very secure plan for their extrication from alien territory.

In order to conserve tylium, the bulk of Commander Kelso's fleet, civilian and military alike, would use the same wormhole transit points as the Earth fleet; they'd move as one combined fleet in one mass movement. But as an added safety measure against possible ambush by alien forces, _Galactica_ herself was tasked with jumping ahead to the terminus point of each wormhole.

It was a simple plan, really, with _Galactica_ acting as an anchor point, securing the terminus of each wormhole being used. Upon arrival, a CAP was launched, ready to intercept any possible enemy ships that might be patrolling the area. In addition Raptors were deployed as well, eight total, serving to not only extended the range of DRADIS, but also put more radiological detection systems out there in case the enemy, alien or AI, had any stealth ships lying in wait.

His eyes focused on the screens overhead, Commander Kelso fought to keep his mind on the mission at hand, for not only was this the third leg of the journey, it was also the _last_ leg of that journey, the leg that finally put them at the edge of Earth's solar system.

With the hairs on the back of his neck tingling, he tried very hard to ignore the tantalizing fact that they were truly about to enter the next stage of their exodus from the Colonies.

Whether they'd find refuge on Earth was still up for debate, but at least Earth was now within reach.

"Report, Lieutenant Cortez," snapped Commander Kelso. "Any contacts in the neighborhood?"

"Nothing so far, Commander," replied Cortez as the Raptors continued to spread out from _Galactica_.

"Very well," sighed Kelso evenly, his fingers still drumming away feverishly.

His eyes still focused on the screens overhead, Commander Kelso didn't notice the attention that was being paid to him by Major Burke, and only barely noticed when she moved around beside him.

"What is it?" she muttered.

"So far nothing," he replied evenly, his eyes still very much on the screens overhead.

"Then why are you drumming away as though we had an entire wing of Cylon Raiders bearing down on us?"

His fingers stopping mid-beat, Commander Kelso slowly curled them, shrugging slightly.

"Just anxious I suppose," he finally replied. "I mean, we're so close to what a little over two weeks ago would have seemed impossible; Earth."

"And yet somehow, you're expecting trouble," continued Burke.

"I'm not _expecting_ trouble," countered Commander Kelso somewhat defensively as he glanced over at her.

"Then why do you have that look on your face?"

"I didn't know I _had_ a 'look'," chuckled Kelso as he looked back up at the screen.

"Oh, believe me, you do, sir," replied Burke as she began slowly making her way back around to the opposite side of the table. "Scary thing is that it's usually accurate."

"Just trying to feel my way through this, trying to gauge what our next step should be," replied Commander Kelso evenly. "Jumping into the situation with both feet was daunting enough, but now we're not just treading water anymore, we may actually have land in sight…"

"And the undertow is usually strongest when you finally begin wading ashore," added Burke as she absently adjusted her thin rim glasses.

"Poetic analogy," grinned Kelso as his eyes continued to scan across the screen overhead. "But accurate nonetheless."

Letting out a long, steadying breath, Commander Sean Kelso watched as the Raptors continued to move outwards from _Galactica_ to their picket positions.

"Raptors have assumed station, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez as the Raptors settled into their final positions.

"And now we wait," sighed Commander Kelso as he glanced up at the clock.

"Twelve hour transit time, correct?" asked Burke as she too glanced at the clock.

"Give or take," shrugged Commander Kelso. "Nothing to do but wait for the rest of the fleet to arrive…"

Cutting him off mid-sentence, a low alarm began sounding from DRADIS overhead.

"Report!"

"Multiple contacts, Commander," replied Lieutenant Cortez instantly. "Raptor Seven-Zero-Two is tracking multiple signals at bearing one-three-five carom three-niner-one."

"IFF?"

"Based on signature returns, they look like standard type, non-stealth enemy fighters flying tight formation," answered Cortez.

"Frak," spat Burke as she leaned in a bit over the plot table, her eyes narrowing a bit as she glared towards the screen overhead. "Any indication they've picked us up?"

"According to Commodore Ross, _Galactica_ should be outside their detection range," replied Cortez.

"And our Raptor?" asked Commander Kelso pointedly.

"No indication they are turning for intercept, sir," said Cortez.

"Then what _is_ their current heading, Lieutenant?"

Jumping up from his station, Lieutenant Cortez moved over to the smaller plot table where a small stack of charts provided to them by Commodore Ross lay.

Pouring over those charts, Cortez and a couple other crewmen quickly worked to divine the enemy course.

"Presuming the enemy formation holds course, their heading has them on a direct course for the third planet in system, sir," sighed Cortez, shaking his head lightly as he looked back across CIC to the Commander. "ETA, approximately six hours if they hold speed."

"The third planet," muttered Kelso, letting out a long sigh. "That's Earth they're heading towards."

"Orders sir?" prompted Major Burke.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Sean Kelso began lightly drumming his fingers again.

Another alien fleet, this time at the edges of Earth's home system.

Six hours till they reached their target.

Twelve hours before Ross and Cassel arrived.

While both Commodore Ross and Commodore Cassel had made it clear that Earth had pulled its remaining forces back to defend the home system, it was by no means clear that they were even aware of the presence of this alien fleet.

Worse still, both Ross and Cassel had made it clear that where there was one alien fleet, it was highly probable that there could be another, or several others, also lurking nearby.

What was unclear was just how prepared or capable Earth's battered forces were to repel any significant attack.

"Okay," sighed Commander Kelso, his expression resolute as he looked back up at the DRADIS display.

With a slight thump of his fist, Kelso turned and quickly made his way up to Lieutenant Cortez and leaned in over the chart.

"Major Burke, get CAG up here," called Commander Kelso as his eyes played across the chart. "Then get on the horn down to Chief Copeland and have her begin flight prep on several more Raptors."

"Aye, sir," replied Burke as she snatched up her handset and began relaying the orders.

Within minutes, _Galactica_'s CAG, Major Culver, stepped in through the CIC entryway, caught sight of the Commander, and quickly made his way over to the smaller plot table.

"Dressing casual today, Major?" grinned Kelso as he glanced up and saw Culver, the upper portion of his flight-suit off his shoulders, the sleeves tied hastily around his waist.

"Caught me en route to the deck, sir," shrugged Culver as his eyes immediately settled on the chart laid out across the table. "Got a mission in mind I take it?"

"Reconnaissance in force," replied Kelso as he too returned his attention to the chart. "Looks like we may have picked up the flank guard of an alien fleet heading deeper into the system."

"How many extra birds you want up?"

"Nothing too fancy," replied Kelso evenly. "I just want to get more eyes out there, see if we can get a better bead on what it is we've stumbled across, but flight-ops are your arena."

Taking a deep breath, Culver gently scratched the back of his neck.

"Okay," he sighed, leaning in over the chart as he snatched up a grease pencil. "This was their last bearing?"

"Yes, Major," replied Lieutenant Cortez.

"How conservative do you want the mission, sir?" asked Culver evenly, his attention still on the chart.

"Just get me a firm idea what we're dealing with," nodded Commander Kelso gently.

"As I see it, two direct recon, one off their nose, one in trace for direct track," began Culver. "Two minimum, four would be ideal. Question is how deep in system do you want my pilots to go?"

"Let's draw the red line at the asteroid belt between the orbits of the fourth and fifth planets," replied Commander Kelso. "We go much deeper, we would definitely run the risk of our ships being engaged by Earth forces considering they have no idea of just who the hell we are."

"What about the personnel Commodore Ross sent over for liaison?" offered Major Culver. "They might be able to communicate with the Earth forces in system on our behalf."

"To be honest, I'd prefer to remain hidden from _all_ parties until Commodore Ross arrives with the rest of the fleet," replied Commander Kelso evenly. "Even with the Earth forces we have aboard _Galactica_, their compatriots might just be spooked enough to open up on us as well. For the time being, I just want a better picture of what we're facing out there with regards to that alien fleet."

"Aye, sir," sighed Culver as he reached over and snatched up an errant piece of paper lying on the table.

"Let me know when you're ready," said Commander Kelso as he turned and began making his way back towards the main plot table.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Starboard Hangar Deck**

As he stood leaning against one of the large angular support pillars, Captain Nathan West watched the bustle of activity taking place around the hangar.

Word had come down that _Galactica_ had picked up Chigs in the outer reaches of the solar system.

Considering the fact that this was the first time since the perilous early days of the war that the enemy had managed to penetrate so close to Earth, West and the other pilot who'd been assigned by Commodore Ross to _Galactica_ were decidedly shaken by the news.

"Nah, no _way_ they get to Earth," muttered Lieutenant Stone adamantly as he watched a maintenance team moving one of the Colonial tri-wing fighters. "All of IFOR has been pulled back in system; Chigs _won't_ be able to achieve a breakthrough."

"Scuttlebutt says they're deploying more of those stealth birds like Chiggy von Richtofen," countered Lieutenant Katrina Laturner, a female InVitro from the _Saratoga_'s Thirty-Second squadron.

"Scuttlebutt, nothin'," scoffed Hawkes as he too stood watching the myriad of activity around them, all but fidgeting in his boots. "They're what managed to hit Kelso's other ship, the _Proteus_, did a hell-of-a lot of damage too."

"Question is, if they've picked up a bead on the Chigs, why are we just sitting around on our asses?" muttered Lieutenant Nick Keegan as he gently kicked the toe of his boot against the deck. "I mean, they roused us out of the rack, told us to get into gear, to what, sit here on our helmets?"

"We don't know how many Chigs are out there or how far they've managed to penetrate into the solar system yet," interjected West evenly. "Besides it's not like we're sitting here alone, the command liaison team will let us know if the Colonials need us in the air."

"Come on, West," groaned Hawkes. "You telling me you're willing to just sit here?"

"Until word comes down to do otherwise, yes," replied West flatly.

"I still don't like it, I mean, Chigs this close to Earth?" muttered Stone, gently shaking his head as he absently picked at a decorative decal on his helmet. "Has bad ju-ju written all over it."

"I heard a rumor before we cross-decked about some sort of coup in the Chig military," muttered Laturner as she ran her hand through her short-cropped hair.

"Enough with the rumors," snapped West impatiently. "I'm sick of all the scuttlebutt, second-guessing and speculation."

Slowly, West looked around at each of the pilots assembled around him.

They were all good pilots, the best, at least of those who still remained. Cobbled together from the remaining squadrons aboard the _Saratoga_ and _Lexington_, they were, at best, a composite unit now, riding shotgun on a ship that only a few days ago none of them could have even dreamed existed.

And as if that alone wasn't surreal enough, Captain Nathan West, the man who'd so often eschewed taking a leadership role, had been designated as senior pilot.

"Now I know as Marines, Navy company included, our nature is to want to be in the thick," continued West after a moment. "But for now, _right now_, all we can do is get our heads on right and get our minds back into the game, cause the time's coming close when we'll all be shuffled back into play. And if your thoughts are somewhere else when we do, if you're not focused on your jobs, you Stone, or you Laturner, might _die_ because someone's head wasn't where it needed to be."

Almost surprisingly, West's words seemed to have made an impression as the faces of his fellow Marines seemed to become more focused, more resolute.

Even Hawkes, ever the non-conformist, seemed to be reigned in a bit.

"Sounds like someone finally finished up their MCI on Leadership," muttered Hawkes, cracking a slight grin.

As a low chuckle rolled through the assembled pilots, even West couldn't help but grin.

"Captain West!"

The voice cut through the din of activity so crisply that it echoed off the bulkheads.

"Here!" snapped West, slowly making his way forward as one of the command liaison officers stepped into view.

It was Navy Captain Isaac Cohen, _Saratoga_'s CAG and overall CO of the entire IFOR detachment aboard _Galactica_.

"Captain, balloon's gone up," muttered Captain Cohen as he made a quick visual once-over of the assembled pilots. "Mission profile is still coming together but make sure your planes are prepped and ready to launch on a moment's notice."

"Aye, sir," snapped West as he turned back to the assembled pilots. "Okay, you heard the man, time to saddle up."

Even before Captain Cohen had disappeared back around the corner, most of the assembled pilots had all but leapt back to their feet, flight gear in hand.

With a curt nod from West, the group began making its way over towards one of the elevator pads that would take them up to the flight deck above. Since their planes were already prestaged fully armed and fully fueled on the flight deck, all that really remained for preparation was to get bodies into the cockpits.

While they still had no firm mission in hand, as the combined group of pilots made their way towards to the elevator, they were imbued with a sense of purpose. Quickly donning their flight helmets, they paused to check one another, ensuring a good seal on the zero-atmo flight suits they'd been issued for this mission.

Then, as the mixed group of Navy and Marine pilots stepped up onto the elevator, they were surprised to see that a good number of the Colonial deck crew had stopped and were saluting them.

It was a simple gesture, one whose meaning might very well have been lost on anyone who'd never served in a front line unit. But to the small group of men and women who'd soon be placing their lives once more on the line, this nascent sign of the growing camaraderie between the Colonial and IFOR forces, indeed, this sign of personal respect, was nonetheless heartening.

Looking back out at the group of saluting deck hands, Captain Nathan West and the other pilots beside him smartly returned the salute as the elevator began its ascent.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Glancing up from the chart laid out before him, Major Giles Danton let out a long sigh as Captain Cohen stepped back in through the entryway into the _Galactica_'s bridge.

"Our pilots ready, sir?" asked Danton simply as he returned his attention to the chart.

"They're ready," replied Cohen as he stepped up and likewise focused his attention on the chart. "Question is, what exactly did I have them get ready to do?"

"I guess that depends on our 'allies'," muttered Danton as he glanced over at Commander Kelso.

Currently, the _Galactica_'s CO was at another plot table off to one side of the bridge, deeply involved in a discussion with several of his officers.

"You seem troubled, Major," said Cohen as he noted the peculiar expression on Danton's face.

"Just trying to wrap my head around this whole insane, impossible mess," replied Danton with a smirk as he looked back down at the chart. "Part of me expects to wake up any minute now in _Saratoga_'s sickbay to find out I'd been hit on the head by an I-beam or something."

"Sounds like you're not entirely convinced of our allies' sincerity," said Cohen as he quickly scribbled down a few annotations on a notepad.

"Are you saying you don't have any doubts, Captain?" countered Danton.

Letting out a long sigh, Cohen looked up at Danton.

"Of course I have doubts," he finally said, himself glancing over at Commander Kelso. "But two Commodores trump a Captain, they say we work with these guys, well, here I am."

"That simple, sir?"

"No, _not_ that simple," conceded Cohen as he looked back over to Danton. "Twenty-two years in this man's Navy, of course it's not that simple."

"So you don't trust them either," nodded Danton.

"Not so simple to answer _that_ question, either," continued Cohen. "I mean, plain facts, these people saved our fleet, saved _our_ lives, they haven't shown the least hint of deception, any subterfuge…"

"Almost _too_ perfect," muttered Danton as he glanced back over to Commander Kelso and his officers.

"_And_ they've taken _losses_," continued Cohen, his tone very deliberate. "Or have you forgotten that?"

"But where the _hell_ did they come from?" countered Danton. "I mean, are they _really_ human, or are they simply some other alien race _pretending_ to be human. If they _are_ human, they have to be from Earth; why make up some lie about another solar system and planets being nuked?"

"Maybe they're time travelers from the future," smirked Cohen as he scribbled down a few more notes.

At that, Danton began shaking his head.

"If you're not going to take this seriously, sir…"

"I _am_ taking this seriously, Major," sighed Cohen, meeting Danton's gaze. "All I'm saying is don't let your suspicion cloud your judgment. Plain and simple, here and now, we have a job to do. Commodore Ross assigned us to liaison duty to help get our fleet home. These people are helping us to do just that, and until there's _firm_, _hard_ evidence of duplicity, we will do our duty."

"The end justifies the means?"

"No, more like a leap of faith," replied Cohen, letting out a long sigh as he set his pen and notepad down. "A _pragmatic_ leap of faith."

"Am I interrupting?"

At the sound of the translated voice filtering in through their headsets, both Cohen and Danton looked up and realized that Commander Kelso has managed to step back over to the table without either of them noticing.

Worse still, both of them realized too late that they'd been wearing the translator headsets linked into one of the laptops the whole time, thus, their entire exchange had likely been translated.

Had Commander Kelso been listening to their conversation?

From the curious look on his face, both officers suspected he had been, at least for part of it.

Clearing his throat, Major Danton forced himself to look back down at the chart, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Kelso.

Cohen smiled weakly, almost apologetically.

"I don't suppose…" muttered Cohen, chuckling somewhat nervously. "Um, were you listening to us just now, Commander Kelso?"

"A little bit," replied Kelso, eyeing each of the two men.

Then, letting out a long breath, the Commander set the clipboard he had in hand down onto the table top.

"Much as I wish I _could_, I know I _can't_ just magically wave my hand and make you men trust us," began Kelso evenly, his gaze wandering around the massive bridge. "And believe me, this whole trust thing, what you're both feeling, keep in mind it's very much a two-way street."

At that, both Danton and Cohen looked up at Kelso.

"Don't look so surprised," smiled Kelso. "You should have seen the look on my XO's face when I agreed to allow you men unrestricted access to this CIC. And she wasn't the only one, either."

"What, your people don't trust _us_?" sputtered Danton, somewhat flabbergasted, apparently unaware of the irony of his hypocrisy.

"Well, you two gentlemen, hell, everyone in your fleet including Commodore Ross has expressed the opinion that our existence is impossible," began Commander Kelso evenly. "You think we're either lying about the Colonies, or worse still, are perhaps in collusion with the aliens. Would it surprise you to learn that the existence of Earth to _us_ was little more than religious _myth_ until we ran across your fleet?"

At that, both Danton and Cohen seemed to pause, mulling the idea over.

It was true; neither of them had really even considered the possibility that the Colonials might be just as suspicious of them as the two officers were of their newfound allies.

"But as I see it, and both Commodore Ross and Commodore Cassel would seem to agree, we really have only two options right now," continued Commander Kelso evenly. "We can either set aside the conspiracy theories for the moment and work together, or run the risk that both our fleets, and quite possibly Earth itself, will not survive."

Glancing at one another, both Cohen and Danton suddenly felt a bit foolish for even questioning the situation.

"I apologize, Commander," began Danton evenly. "I didn't mean…"

"Don't worry about it, Major," grinned Kelso, letting out a long sigh as he glanced up at the display screens overhead. "Gods know, there's too much confusion, on all sides. All we can do is try and muddle through and hope we survive long enough to sort through the other stuff later. Agreed?"

"Agreed," nodded Cohen.

"Agreed," echoed Danton, nodding gently as well.

"Good," sighed Kelso as he looked back over at Cohen and Danton. "Now, back to the crisis at hand."

"Your recon flights seem to have given us a pretty good picture of the enemy movement," began Danton as he motioned at the chart laid out on the table. "Trouble is, it would seem we are dealing with more than one fleet here."

"From the looks of it three," said Kelso as he glanced down at the clipboard he'd brought over. "So far none of them seems to have penetrated into the system much further than this large gas giant here, the fifth planet out…"

"Jupiter," interjected Cohen evenly.

Pausing, Kelso glanced up at Cohen.

"Jupiter?" he muttered. "As in the god Jupiter?"

"Roman god, yeah," replied Cohen, his expression wavering for a moment, confused. "Why?"

"Long story short, there might not be as much difference in our societies as you think," smirked Kelso as he kept his attention on the clipboard before him. "Anyways, all three fleets are maintaining separate vectors, but moving along courses that are roughly parallel to one another."

"Makes sense, keeps IFOR from concentrating the defense fleet for a counterattack," muttered Danton.

"Have your recon planes managed to make any close passes of Earth itself?" asked Cohen.

"I specifically had my CAG order our birds to avoid penetrating past this asteroid belt between the orbits of the fourth and fifth planets," replied Kelso. "Since we didn't have any specifics on possible defenses deployed by the rest of your fleet, I wanted to avoid contact."

"Considering they wouldn't have known who the hell you are, probably a safe bet," sighed Cohen.

"Your recon flights, did they manage to get any firm data on the composition of the enemy fleets?" asked Major Danton.

"At last report, enemy has a total force of sixty-six capital ships, over one-hundred of the smaller destroyers, and at least twenty-two squadrons of fighters," replied Commander Kelso evenly.

Shaking his head slightly, Danton let out a low whistle.

Cohen let out a long, heavy sigh.

"Well, the remainder of our respective fleets will arrive in approximately eight hours," began Commander Kelso as he glanced up at the displays overhead. "Once they arrive we'll be better able to assess whether our assistance is needed."

With that, Kelso moved to step away from the plot table.

"Commander Kelso, we may not have that kind of time," interjected Captain Cohen, scowling a bit as he looked back down at the charts.

"I'm listening," replied Kelso as he leaned back in over the plot table attentively.

"The enemy has never, in this entire war, mustered in one place a fleet this size," continued Cohen as he nervously fidgeted with the pen in his hand. "Whatever their motivation, this is a significant push by the Chigs; they're playing this one for keeps."

"According to Commodore Ross, the bulk of Earth's remaining fleets are already back in the system," said Commander Kelso as he eyed the two visibly disturbed Earth officers. "Is there any chance that they'd be able to hold out at least until _Saratoga_ and _Lexington_ arrive?"

Glancing at one another for a moment, Cohen was silent while Danton simply shook his head.

"Not likely, Commander," replied Cohen evenly. "Up till now, IFOR SOP has been to have several recon flights ranged out through the system; early warning patrols to ward off Chig incursions. Even with the limited flight plan you had your birds flying they should have stumbled across at least one of those advance units."

"And the fact that we didn't means..?"

"It means IFOR has pulled everyone and everything back to a tight perimeter defense zone around Earth itself," finished Major Danton, gently kicking the base of the plot table with his toe.

"A contracted perimeter," continued Captain Cohen as he pulled the map overlay closer as he began pointing at the area around Earth. "Tighter control, thicker defense, in the short range. But, it also means our fleet is no longer able to maintain the broader defense in-depth that for the last two years has managed to keep the system clear of enemy activity."

"And if they've done that, it means IFOR is running awfully thin," finished Danton. "This has all the earmarks of a last-stand scenario, Commander."

Letting out a long breath, Commander Kelso leaned in a bit more over the plot table as he absorbed what Cohen and Danton were telling him.

"Gentleman, if you are suggesting that _Galactica_ alone attempt to engage those enemy fleets," he began, gently shaking his head as he spoke. "Even with our firepower and jump capability, that's a lot of ships, a daunting number of fighters; _Galactica_ is sturdy, but those are still some pretty steep odds."

As all three officers fell silent, their attention remained focused on the overlay lying on the plot table, their minds digesting the implications of so overwhelming a force bearing down on Earth, Danton almost feverishly fiddling with his pen, Commander Kelso gently drumming his fingers, all the while, the enemy continuing its unrelenting advance deeper into the solar system.

"We may just have to bite the bullet on this one, gentleman," sighed Kelso as he looked back up at the two men. "It may be time we tried to make contact with your defense fleet, _directly_."

For a moment, Danton actually chuckled.

"Easier said than done, Commander," he began as even Cohen scowled at him a bit.

"Why?" asked Kelso flatly

"Hardware shouldn't be a problem," began Cohen as he looked over at Danton. "We have complete access to IFOR comm through the Hammerheads as well as the half dozen PRC-eleven-twenty-eights we brought over…"

"You're right, hardware's _not_ the problem, sir," cut-in Danton, shaking his head. "This is a _software_ problem; encryption upload, decryp protocols, channel splitting sequence. SOP states all protocols are to be updated every three months to throw off the enemy's ability to break our encryptions. We've been out of contact for over _six_ months, two full cycles, none of our gear is ready to transmit in line with the new protocols; they won't believe it's us. The only thing they'll listen to is a transmission accompanied by a warship's transponder ID, which we don't have."

As he stood there looking down at the chart on the plot table, his mind mulling over all that Danton had explained to him regarding the problems with attempting to contact Earth directly, Commander Sean Kelso both sensed and empathized with the frustration the two men were feeling; the very survival of their home world was hanging in the balance, and it seemed there was nothing they could do but watch as it fell.

"Commander."

Glancing up, Commander Kelso caught sight of Lieutenant Cortez making his way over to the plot table.

"Yes, Lieutenant, what is it?"

"All three enemy fleets have increased speed, sir," began Cortez as he reached out and practically snatched back the overlay from underneath Danton and Cohen's fingers, realizing just a moment too late how rude it seemed. "Sorry…"

But neither Danton nor Cohen seemed impressed by the apology.

Then again, why would they be; without a headset, Cortez's words weren't being translated for them.

"You were saying, Lieutenant?" prodded Kelso impatiently.

"We've revised the enemy fleet's ETA for Earth, sir."

"How long?" asked Kelso, this time holding out the headset so that it would translate what Cortez was saying as well.

"Assuming they maintain speed, which right now is at a pretty good clip, they'll be near Earth orbit in one hour."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," sighed Kelso as he slipped the headset back into place and turned back towards the now decidedly sullen-looking Danton and Cohen. "Well, gentleman, it would seem the sharks have caught a scent of blood and are circling for the kill."

"You have sharks on your world, Commander?" asked Danton.

"Had, yes," nodded Kelso. "In any case, it would seem the clock is running a bit faster than we'd feared."

"Well, we'll just have to hope the fleet is able to hold out until _Saratoga_ arrives with the rest of our ships," sighed Cohen, running his hand back through his gray, thinning hair.

"One hour till the enemy is in orbit, eight hours till _Saratoga_ arrives," muttered Danton, rattling off the stats as he continued to calculate still more in his head. "Another six hours, minimum, before they'd be able to reach the fight…"

Shaking his head, Danton's voice trailed off.

And as he stood looking at the two clearly despondent men, Commander Sean Kelso again felt one very clear, very potent sentiment; empathy.

Just as Kelso and the rest of the survivors of the Cylon holocaust had watched helplessly as their entire civilization was obliterated, so too were these two men now facing the dire likelihood that all they had fought and suffered for was likewise about to be forever lost.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Commander Sean Kelso made a decision.

"How many planes did you bring over?" asked Kelso evenly.

"Roughly six squadrons," replied Captain Cohen. "Give or take…"

Taking another deep breath, the Commander actually managed a weak smile.

"Gentleman," he began evenly. "It's time for us to get creative."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Midway  
><strong>_**United States Naval Space Carrier – SCVN-2813  
><strong>**US 3****rd**** Fleet – United Nations International Forces (UN IFOR)**

Reaching up, Lieutenant Steven Bordgrave rubbed his exhausted eyes as he let out an equally exhausted yawn.

Thirteen hours now without relief…

Indeed, no real possibility of relief in sight…

Not with all of Earth IFOR on full alert.

Ever since intel had first detected three full Chig battlegroups moving in from the outer reaches of the system, Earth had literally been throwing anything and everything into orbit to meet the coming threat. Reports of the enemy strength, formidable under any circumstances, were only made more worrisome by the fact that the enemy wasn't even bothering to try and hide their approach.

The enemy knew full and well just how bad off Earth's defenses were.

So bad in fact that this ship, the _Midway_, was barely more than seventy-five percent complete.

No Eckerly drive…

There wasn't even an air wing aboard…

But in the minds of IFOR headquarters, with nothing less than the entire Chig fleet coming down upon their collective heads, _Midway_ had sublight engines enough to maneuver and weapons enough to fight, so she was as ready as she was ever going to be…

...or would ever _have_ a chance to be if Earth fell this day.

With vast swaths of the unified fleets all but wiped out these last six months, even the incomplete _Midway_ was in about as good a shape to face the Chigs as anything already in commission.

Scattered all around in orbit were every last assortment of vessel which could be scraped together, vessels that had not yet been finished, ships with hastily patched damage from previous bouts limping out alongside ships that had been obsolete long before the war had even begun, all lining up for one last ditch defense of the planet.

Hell, the situation was so dire in fact that down within the confines of the atmosphere anti-satellite and medium cruise missiles were being loaded onto planes as much as forty or fifty years old, the atmospherically-bound relics representing a forlorn hope that even if the fleet failed to stop the Chigs, damage might still be wrought upon the enemy were they hapless enough to stray into a ridiculously close orbit.

Just then, the headphones over Bordgrave's ears crackled to life.

"Sir, flash traffic from HMS _Centaur_," he snapped as the brief, almost frantic message burst across the frequency. "Long range LIDAR contact with enemy forces."

"Details, Mr. Bordgrave," countered the ship's CO, Captain Bolger as she quickly stepped up behind the communications station.

"Recon units of the Pan-Arabian League and African Union have picked up massed squadrons approaching Russian defense zone," replied Bordgrave.

"Second confirmed contact coming in from the PRC units," called the all-too young Petty Officer at the comm-station beside Bordgrave. "An advance guard of fighters is closing on their outer defensive perimeter."

Just then the _Midway_'s own LIDAR station burst to life with a near-ear-splitting alarm.

"Let me guess...," sighed Captain Bolger as she shifted her attention to the LIDAR station.

"Affirmative, Skipper," replied Lieutenant Commander Shapiro, the officer manning the station as he gently nodded his head. "Bastards aren't even trying to show any finesse."

"Because they know they don't have to," muttered Captain Bolger bitterly. "Any word on the JDF contingent?"

"IFOR Command is holding them in reserve at a deployable position from the far side, Skipper," replied Bordgrave instantly.

For a moment, Captain Bolger seemed on the edge of fuming, but quickly stifled the impulse.

Right now it wouldn't help for her little-more-than skeleton crew to see her flustered at a moment like this.

Worse still, anything she might have had to say was already well known by everyone.

The enemy had managed to sortie a significant force for the attack; top-line battleships and destroyers escorted by hundreds of fighters.

After months on the run, most of the first-line warships of the Earth fleet had long been pummeled into debris. What remained were battered, patched up, or simply had not been up to the rigors of deep space flight or front line combat in the first place.

Now this motley assortment, the best of what was left, were the thin line of tin that stood between the enemy and Earth.

It was a simple fact of the global economic system that some nations had simply been in a better place financially to afford building an interstellar fleet than others. And what one nation couldn't lend to the global war effort in the way of warships it had lent in other areas; troops, planes, logistical support.

Every nation had bled and suffered.

And now, every nation, every man, woman and child on the world below, waited, the fate of an entire species literally hanging on the outcome of this battle.

If only the stout defenders were as confident of victory as the enemy, plowing in unhindered, unhidden, seemed to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Times Square<br>****New York, New York  
><strong>**United States of America**

A mass of humanity filled the streets in the cool night, anxious and mournful eyes cast skyward.

Mothers and fathers held children, husbands held onto their wives, young lovers lamented intimate moments that might never come.

And in a rare, almost unprecedented moment, the neon signs that for nearly two centuries had heralded-in epic moments in history, spotlighted an unremitting stream of new theatrical productions, or had shamelessly marketed every ware from the vital to the frivolous that modern commercialism could provide, lights and marquees that had seemed intent on burning eternally were cast into darkness to allow a completely unhindered view of the night skies above.

And amid this roiling mass of humanity, two figures stood placid.

One, a man, at a glance perhaps no more remarkable than any of the thousands of other men who'd gathered, and yet decidedly different in his demeanor, his lips curled in an almost childlike if subtly conceited smirk.

The other, a tall, striking blonde, her golden curls like an extended halo about her head. Thin, lovely, she might have been any one of the thousands of bleary-eyed hopefuls who regularly flocked to this city in search of dreams of celebrity as a model or an actress.

But what made them truly remarkable was that though they stood at the epicenter of this angst-ridden crowd, not one single person around them seemed to notice their presence, not even the pickpocket who slipped past mere inches away, plying his larcenous trade as he slipped his hand into the coat pocket on an unwary investment banker.

"Ironic, isn't it?" muttered the man, his eyes on the petty thief as he disappeared into the crowd. "Even now with the very existence of their world hanging in the balance, _that_ one can't avoid the compulsion."

"Sin is in their nature," replied the woman as she too eyed the retreating thief.

"So, have you finally surrendered your sanguinity about humanity, my dear?" asked the man, his accented voice accompanied by an almost mischievous grin.

"No more than you have abandoned your quest to always underscore the lesser qualities in them," countered the blonde woman, her voice playful, melodic. "But then, all things are taken into account in God's…"

She paused, looking over at him, at the subtly disapproving look in his eyes, remembering the subdued warning in his tone ever so many years ago; 'you know HE doesn't like that name'.

"…in _HIS_ plan," she amended.

"Still stubbornly playing the optimist, then, I see," he huffed, casting his eyes once more to the flickering stars overhead. "And how does _this_ situation fit in with your overly buoyant view, hmm..?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'll admit it certainly took longer this time around, for the cycle to once more come full circle, but we again arrive at the same conclusion; mankind's sins revisited upon them; the hubris of playing god with artificial life, the arrogance of assuming the entirety of creation was theirs alone to muck up."

"But you forget how much more complex the system has become," countered the blonde, her tone maintaining a subtle seductiveness in spite of the subject. "Colonials, Cylons, aliens, Silicates, so many players, old and new; I'm fairly certain not even _you_ can foresee what HE has in mind this time around."

"No, perhaps not," muttered the man, his tone almost indignant as he leaned in closer to her. "But it should provide for some terribly welcome, shall we say, entertainment?"

In spite of his proximity, the subtle way he was invading her personal space, she responded with the same, almost gleeful playfulness, reaching out to gently run a seductive finger around the curve of his ear.

"Then if it's entertainment you seek," she purred, gently reaching up under his chin, nudging his gaze once more skyward. "Keep watching, because _this_ promises to be _very_ interesting."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Midway  
><strong>_**Bridge**

"HMS _Centaur_ is ordering all ships into a defensive line abreast formation," called Lieutenant Bordgrave.

"Acknowledge signal from the flagship, Lieutenant," replied Captain Bolger evenly as she watched the LIDAR intently. "Helm, bring us up, z-axis plus five-zero-k, give the fore-guns a clear line-of-fire."

As the ship's only-recently installed engines pushed against the gravity well of the Earth below, boosting the still-incomplete _Midway_ into a higher orbit, the first ranks of the approaching enemy fighters continued to sail closer on the LIDAR.

"If anyone has something inspiring to say, now's the time," muttered Captain Bolger, her eyes never leaving the screen.

For his part, Bordgrave had no time to even begin to muster anything from his memory, the IFOR comm-channels were too alive with transmissions for him to concentrate on anything else.

Accents and languages from most every nation on Earth filled the invisible radio waves; Russian, Chinese, both Mandarin and Cantonese, Japanese, French, Hindi, Swahili, Arabic, English, Persian...

And through it all, one message; a collective prayer for salvation…

A prayer that turned into an explosion of international expletives as the LIDAR shrilled to life…

"What the fuck is _that_?" sputtered Captain Bolger, her eyes going wide at the massive contact that had appeared out of _nowhere_ between her task force and one of the closing Chig formations.

Even before he could react to the surprising act of a Navy Captain using profanity on the bridge, Lieutenant Bordgrave's ears were literally bombarded by a flood of new transmissions.

"_We see it_…"

"Centaur_ to all ships; prepare for immediate_…"

"_Look at the size of that thing_…"

"_Must be Chig, we've got nothing like it_…"

"_New contacts, it, they, whatever, it's sending fighters into the air_…"

"Fleet reports the new contact is launching fighters, Captain," snapped Lieutenant Bordgrave.

"I see it, Lieutenant," replied Captain Bolger as she reached up and hit the overhead button on a speaker box. "This is the Captain; all hands prepare for immediate fighter counter-action…"

"No, wait!" burst Lieutenant Commander Shapiro as his hands darted about the LIDAR console. "Bordgrave, get on the horn to the other ships, confirm they've run an IFF."

"Aye, sir," replied Borgrave flatly, his mouth dry.

"What is it, Shapiro?" snapped Captain Bolger.

"Skipper, LIDAR is tracking IFF returns on USN and USMC Hammerheads out there," replied Shapiro.

"Out _where_, Shapiro?" prodded Bolger impatiently.

"Out among the planes that just launched from, well, _whatever_ that huge thing is," replied Shapiro.

Captain Bolger opened her mouth, her mind racing, preparing to spout any number of a thousand things when the LIDAR station again squealed like a wounded animal for attention.

"Now what?" she burst.

"The object has moved," replied Shapiro, his brow furrowed in confusion. "It's now positioned halfway between the UK Contingent and the Chigs' Center Group."

His attention divided by the near frantic calls that continued to explode over the comm-frequencies, Lieutenant Bordgrave nevertheless tried to partition at least some of his attention to the action occurring on LIDAR, his brain trying to reconcile what everyone was practically as well as literally screaming out over the radio waves as _impossible_.

"What do you mean 'moved', Shapiro, that's pretty vague," said Captain Bolger as she rampaged back towards the LIDAR station.

"I _can't_ explain it any more precisely, Skipper," he replied, utterly confused as he pointed up at the screen. "One moment it was _here_, launching fighters, including Hammerheads squawking as friendly, the next moment, it was _here_, several thousand kilometers away…wait!"

Again, the impossibly large and inexplicably fast contact began once more to blossom with signals the LIDAR computer interpreted as fighter-size craft.

And again, some of the fighters taking to the air came back with USN and USMC-registered IFF codes.

With nothing short of overlapping gibberish over the comm-frequencies, Lieutenant Bordgrave was on the verge of throwing his headset away in frustration when a new transmission, one being sent unencrypted and in the open, began filtering in over every band on the IFOR-Tac.

"_To all IFOR units, this is Captain Nathan West, Fifty-Eighth Squadron, United States Marine Corps, USS _Saratoga_; be advised, do not fire, I say again, do not fire; we are friendlies_."

"Captain!" called Bordgrave, his eyes wide as he triangulated the source of the transmission.

"I see it, Lieutenant," cut-in Captain Bolger as she too saw that the source of the message was one of the newly arrived planes tagged by IFF as a USMC Hammerhead.

Again squealing for attention, LIDAR showed that the massive contact had inexplicably shifted position a third time, this time to the far left flank of Earth forces opposite the third advancing Chig pincer. Again, a significant fighter force was launched into the air as the unexpected transmission was repeated once more across the IFOR-Tac.

As everyone on the _Midway_'s bridge watched, all three groups of newly arrived planes, both tagged and untagged, spread out in an attack configuration, noses clearly pointed towards the closing Chigs.

"What the _hell_ is going on?" seethed Captain Bolger.

* * *

><p><strong>Hammerhead Five-Four-Two<br>****Task Force Green**

"I say again, do _not_ fire; we are friendlies," finished West as he nosed his plane around.

"_You think they believe you_?" asked Lieutenant 'Rocky' Stone.

"_I sure as hell hope they do_," added Lieutenant KC 'Sweet Pea' Laturner cagily. "_Would suck to survive six months in Chig territory just to die in a crossfire between the Chigs and our own forces in Earth orbit_."

Reaching down, West toggled the switch to the general comm-tac for all the IFOR planes being deployed by _Galactica_.

"This is Captain West of the Five-Eight; to all planes, time to put a name to our IFF's, something IFOR can confirm; everyone squawk ident and unit."

Almost immediately, the frequency came to life as each of the Navy and Marine Corps pilots running shotgun with the Colonials began broadcasting their identities.

As the Navy and Marine Corps pilots continued to sound off with their ID, West glanced out past his left wing as Hawkes' Hammerhead settled in beside his.

"_This is gonna get hairy_," muttered Hawkes. "_The mother of all furballs_..."

"Time to get Geequed, my friend," smirked West as he looked down at the LIDAR.

"_I just wish I had the chance to see the Chigoes faces when that beast turns back around_," replied Hawkes evenly.

West didn't reply, simply smirking as he reached out and toggled all his Hammerhead's weapon systems hot.

And in that moment, somewhere deep within him, a vestige of whimsy took hold of West, and he just couldn't help himself as he pressed down on his radio transmit button.

"_Okay, listen up_," he began, husking up his voice into his best T.C. McQueen imitation. "_This one's gonna be in the air_…"

And amongst those who knew Colonel McQueen, respected him, the simple, strangely fortifying homage continued.

"_Up till now, the Chigs have had us against the ropes_…" continued Lieutenant Stone. "_But payback's a bitch_…"

"_Now this is gonna be a real knife fight_…" added Lieutenant 'Gramps' Keegan. "_Make sure you check your six_…"

"_Now I know some of you are scared_…" interjected Hawkes, his own McQueen imitation somewhat less convincing, but still in line with the spirit.

And it was at that moment that another transmission broke through that _none_ of them had _ever_ expected.

"_Just be sure to watch each other's backs_…" broke in the deep, authoritative voice of Tyrus Cassius McQueen, the _real_ McQueen. "_And I'll see you when it's over_…"

"_Colonel__!_" burst Hawkes, so loudly one would have thought he'd punched clean out of his cockpit with excitement. "_Colonel McQueen, is that you_?"

"_Who the hell else would it be, Hawkes_?" replied McQueen flatly. "_There's a war on, not exactly the best time for me to retire to some roach infested condo in Boca Raton_."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Midway  
><strong>_**Bridge**

As he stood there, hovering over the shoulder of Lieutenant Bordgrave at the communications console, the now-full bird Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen wasn't in any way aware of just how wide the grin on his normally subdued face actually was.

More to the point, he really didn't care.

After so much loss, it was just damned good to hear their voices again.

"So is someone gonna tell me what the hell is going on or do I have to wait for the movie?" continued McQueen as he glanced back over at the equally hovering Captain Bolger. "Who's in command of that big ship we have on the scope?"

"_It's a long story, Colonel_," replied West evenly.

"Then give me the short version, West," countered McQueen flatly.

"_Short story, sir; we finally have an ally against the Chigs_," answered West.

His brow furrowing a bit, McQueen glanced over at the LIDAR, his eyes settling in on the massive contact.

"What about the _Saratoga_ and the rest of the Fifteenth Fleet?" asked McQueen, cognizant that the transmission was unencrypted, but at the same time not giving one ounce of a damn.

"_En route, Colonel_," replied West.

"_But trust me, sir_," interjected Hawkes, audibly delighted at hearing the voice of his mentor once more. "_This whole thing will be long over by the time they arrive_."

"What makes you so sure, Hawkes?" snapped McQueen. "There's a hell-of-a-lot of Chig hardware out there."

"_You got an eye on LIDAR, sir_?" asked Hawkes simply.

"Well, I'm not exactly watching a rerun of the Three Stooges, Hawkes," shot back McQueen as he indeed looked back over at the LIDAR. "Would someone like to clue me in on what I'm supposed to be looking for?"

For a moment, there was a silent pause.

"Well, Hawkes, West, I'm waiting, what am I looking for?" pressed McQueen.

"_Just the beginning of the Chigs' worst nightmare_," replied Hawkes evenly.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"All Viper wings report ready for action, Commander," said Major Tyra Burke evenly as she slowly lowered her handset back into place at the plot table. "All enemy ships have slowed to stop and are holding position."

Fingers gently drumming away on the plot table, Commander Sean Kelso glanced over at the two Earth liaison officers.

"Gentlemen?" he queried simply.

"All Hammerhead squadrons report on station and ready for engagement, Commander Kelso," replied Captain Cohen simply as he lowered the handset to the portable wireless set the two had brought along. "Per your request, all our planes broadcast their identification to IFOR units in orbit, but the response so far has been mixed."

"I'll take it as a good sign at least that they haven't opened fire on us already," sighed Commander Kelso as he cast his eyes back up to DRADIS. "Lieutenant Cortez, are you ready with the new jump coordinates?"

"Coordinates are locked in, Commander," replied Cortez evenly as he continued to check and recheck the FTL computer system. "Primary synch coils are set, FTL spun and ready on your order, sir."

"Good, cause I don't like uncomfortable silences," muttered Commander Kelso as he looked back up at the motionless enemy ships on DRADIS.

With his entreat that they needed to 'get creative', Commander Kelso had worked with the two IFOR liaisons to quickly cobble together as audacious a plan as they could muster; launch as many mix-force fighter units as they could into the air to try and stifle the enemy advance while _Galactica_ herself used her FTL systems to shake up the enemy capital ships.

The lynchpin for the plan was a technical innovation which had been installed in only a few other ships before the fall of the Colonies. Unlike older generations of warships, _Galactica_ had a new series of FTL cores aboard that were capable of rapidly recharging themselves for successive jumps, the only limiting factors were fuel, the ability to plot additional jumps and the need to remain vigilant for any signs that such rapid, consecutive exposures to spatial distortions were damaging the spaceframe.

Glancing over at the damage control board, Kelso was pleased to see that the last three rapid jumps had not affected his sturdy vessel one bit.

"Start the clock, Lieutenant," he said simply as he returned his attention to DRADIS.

"Aye, sir, initiating fourth jump in three, two, one…"

As the background rumble of the ship's physics bending FTL systems reached a crescendo, the _Galactica_ once more was enveloped the spatially rending effect of a jump.

In an instant, the screen overhead shifted as the Colonial Warstar executed her fourth short line-of-sight jump…right in behind the nearest Chig task force.

"Optimum firing position achieved, Commander," called Lieutenant Cortez as he quickly rushed back over to his station.

Glancing across the plot table to Major Burke, the Commander gave the barest of nods to her as she lifted her handset back to her ear.

"All batteries, commence bombardment," she said evenly.

A moment later, the sound of the ship's weapons opening up thundered throughout CIC.

Startled by the ship's sudden appearance at their rear flank, the Chig task force abruptly began to scatter from the epicenter of destruction being unleashed by the _Galactica_'s weapons as they opened up.

While it was uncertain as to whether or not these aliens had been warned of the possible appearance of _Galactica_, what _was_ clear was that they managed to respond far more potently and effectively to the ship's unleashed torrent of fire.

Spreading out their formation, the aliens prevented _Galactica_ from concentrating the bulk of her firepower along a thin axis. As each individual Chig battleship maneuvered away, fire control was forced to task individual batteries to track and engage, preventing a massed concentration.

As he continued to watch the Chig warships turn to engage, their formation spreading out in such a fashion that they would be able to effectively envelope the _Galactica _from several separate approach vectors, Commander Sean Kelso continued to feverishly drum away with his fingers on the plot table.

Across from him, Major Tyra Burke likewise watched the DRADIS, her eyes alive with anticipation, handset still poised at her ear.

As for the two liaison officers, Captain Cohen and Major Danton, well, they seemed far less confident. From their perspective, this Chig task force was just about as formidable a mass of brute force enemy firepower as they'd ever seen, and this was just _one_ of _three_ Chig pincers aimed squarely at Earth itself.

As the Chig warships completed their turn, quickly coming about to engage the _Galactica_ directly, it was clear that they were intent on taking the formidable Warstar down. Pushing through the hail of fire, less concentrated but nevertheless scoring hits, the enemy ships closed in, hungry for the kill.

Just as Commander Kelso wanted…

"Now, Mr. Cortez!" snapped Kelso evenly as he looked back over at the DC panel.

"Go, Holbrook!" burst Cortez as he pointed back over at the Petty Officer still hovering over the FTL computer.

With the barest of nods, Petty Officer Holbrook pushed down on the key that once more unleashed the potent energies of the _Galactica_'s FTL.

Once more, the Warstar was hurled from one point in space to another.

As the DRADIS screen overhead resolved once more, it showed the previously engaged Chig task force continuing to close in on what was now just an empty point in space, the _Galactica_ herself now aligned to deliver another withering barrage onto the Chig force at the opposite flank.

Grinning slightly when still no damage was indicated on the DC panel, Commander Kelso couldn't help but give a silent thanks to the gods for not cluing the Chigs in on the intricacies of FTL-enabled warfare.

As the _Galactica_'s weapons unleashed themselves upon the new targets, the Vipers and Hammerhead groups deployed near the now utterly confused and exposed enemy ships engaging what was now empty space pushed in to exploit the confusion. Racing in, the Vipers and Hammerheads began tearing into the unsupported Chig fighter formations.

Around the massive Warstar itself, space quickly filled with the telltale trails of tracers as the secondary batteries ripped into the nearest Chig fighter formations. All along the ship's exterior, the larger main batteries opened up as well, hurtling still more armor piercing and high explosive shells into virgin targets.

With one enemy task force in disarray, _Galactica_'s first spoiler attack leaving them exposed, confused and now under attack by the hungry and aggressive Viper and Hammerhead pilots, _Galactica_ focused on wreaking similar havoc on the Chig fleet on the enemy's opposite flank.

And she was doing so to great effect.

As before, the Chig's tried to abrogate the effectiveness of the Colonial warship's arsenal by spreading out their formation. But unlike before, this task force did not turn en masse towards the _Galactica_, apparently very much cognizant that yet another mixed Viper and Hammerhead force was poised to exploit any opening created by the Warstar's attack.

With their attention split between the assault being unleashed by the _Galactica_ and the threat posed by the waiting fighters, the actions of the second Chig task force amounted to little more than indecisiveness, a lack of initiative that only served to leave them open for a continuous hammering from the Warstar's punishing fire.

But the battle was still far from over.

Indeed, Commander Sean Kelso reminded himself that it had barely yet begun.

One flank of the enemy advance was out of position and under harrowing attack by Vipers and Hammerheads...

The opposite flank, stifled, wavering within the proverbial crosshairs of the _Galactica_'s formidable weaponry…

But the Chig center force, as yet untouched, was still composed and even now posed a formidable threat.

And while it was entirely within the _Galactica_'s abilities to continue her current engagement to a truly decisive conclusion, most especially in the face of the enemy's hesitation, Commander Sean Kelso wasn't about to yield the advantages offered by the disorientation the Warstar might yet be able to instill in the Chigs.

"Holbrook, now!" burst the Commander as he once more glanced over at the DC panel.

"Aye, sir," snapped the Petty Officer as once again he punched down on the button that unleashed the ship's FTL energies.

Another jump, still more chaos to be sewn.

In an instant, the previously untouched Chig center force suddenly found itself staring directly down the barrels of a full broadside from the Warstar _Galactica_. As the heavy batteries opened up, the enemy capital ships absorbed the stunning equivalent of a simultaneous punch both directly in the nose and in the gut, vacillating in the confusion of having watched the supporting forces on both flanks being thrown into disarray.

The Chig fighter formations, the stalwart escorts for the tall battleships were instantly assailed with a hail of shells that tore into them with lethal ferocity as the heavier anti-ship shells slammed headlong into the prows of the capital ships.

Almost in spite of himself, Commander Sean Kelso's slight grin expanded into an outright smile of grim satisfaction; without the harrowing risk of a decisive engagement, the lone _Galactica_, as well as the swarms of Vipers and Hammerheads that had sortied from her decks, had managed to turn the Chigs' methodical three-prong attack into a disordered melee.

So it was that as he watched the utter breakdown of the enemy's organization, Commander Sean Kelso noted with even greater satisfaction that the dramatic change in the status quo was not lost upon the orbiting Earth forces.

Taking full advantage of the bedlam unleashed by the _Galactica_, all of the IFOR units surrounding the planet Earth suddenly surged forward, swarming for the kill.

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Bridge**

His eyes on LIDAR, Commodore Glen van Ross watched as the normal interference of the wormhole transit cleared.

In all actuality, he had no reason to suspect that this transit would be any more eventful than the last ones had been.

Each time, _Saratoga_, _Lexington_, their surviving fleet, accompanied by the Colonial ships, had entered and then emerged from the wormhole passages without incident, each time finding the massive _Galatica_ waiting.

But be it because he hadn't really slept these last two days, or be it because this was the last transit that would finally return him and his beleaguered sailors, Marines and soldiers home, Ross was nevertheless pensive as he looked at the LIDAR.

And saw nothing.

_Galactica_ wasn't at the wormhole terminus point.

For a moment, his mind wondered if perhaps the massive Colonial warship had somehow gone off course, ended up somewhere other than where she was supposed to be.

In the next moment, he feared, the Chigs, or worse yet, the Silicates had actually managed to destroy the ship.

It was a fear that was only bolstered when LIDAR caught a lone contact hovering nearby.

He was on the verge of ordering the Master-at-Arms to sound General Quarters when an audibly tired Petty Officer Brooks called out.

"Sir, the _Enceladus_ is hailing us, they're reporting the craft is Colonial…and it _is_ from the _Galactica_."

Instantly, Ross' mind shifted gears; if Kelso had changed the plan, taken _Galactica_ somewhere else, then something must have gone wrong.

Slipping the wireless headset for the translator into place, Ross nodded to Brooks.

"This is Boss Ross, what's the situation _Enceladus_?"

"_This is _Enceladus_-Actual_," began the synthesized voice over the translator. "_It would seem we may have missed out on something, Commodore_."

"Why, where's _Galactica_?"

"_The Raptor crew reports that upon arrival, _Galactica_ detected a significant enemy force en route to Earth_."

"Was _Galactica_ engaged by the enemy?"

"_Not quite_…"


	9. The Western Shore

**The Pentagon  
><strong>**Arlington, Virginia  
><strong>**United States of America**

Taking a deep, relieved breath, Commodore Glen van Ross stepped out into the mid-morning sunlight and gently slipped his service cover into place.

With the warmth of the sun on his face, hardly able to recall the last time he'd felt real sunlight against his skin, Ross closed his eyes and savored the scent of the early spring air.

"You handled that well, Glen."

With the barest of grins, Ross opened his eyes, turned around and rendered a respectful salute as Marine Corps General Oliver Ranford stepped up to him.

Returning the salute, General Ranford glanced up at an ISSCV, one of the newer Mark Two models only recently introduced, coming to rest on the landing pad at the far end of the Pentagon's remote delivery facility.

"With respect, General, next time I'd appreciate it if I was allowed to bring my ship fully into port before being called away," replied Ross evenly as he too looked out at the transport that would be returning him to the _Saratoga_. "Or at least be given the chance to take a shower, I _barely_ had time to change into a fresh uniform before I was whisked down here for this little meet-and-greet."

With a slight chuckle Ranford motioned Ross forward as the two of them began slowly making their way out to the landing pad.

Ross had known Ranford for quite some time, long enough that the formalities of rank were merely for the benefit of the myriad of military personnel around them making their way to and from the Pentagon's North Mall Entrance.

"I suppose the Joint Chiefs _were_ a little too anxious for a direct debrief," smiled Ranford as he began delivering a rapid fire of salutes to the veritable sea of passing military personnel. "But you have to admit, this was a pretty _big_ event, can't blame them for wanting some equally big answers."

"All I did was spend the last six hours recounting details that were _already_ in my After-Action report, sir," said Ross, gently shaking his head as he continued to move intently towards the ISSCV. "Meanwhile my ship is overhead, still wounded; I'd think you of all people would appreciate how important it would have been for me to bring her all the way back home after all we've been through."

"And I should think that you would be equally understanding of _my_ position," countered Ranford with a long sigh. "As Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, sometimes all I can do is try to placate the Indians before they go on the warpath."

At that, Ross couldn't help but shake his head slightly at the off-color pun; it was a truly tongue-in-cheek comment by the General Ranford since he was a decidedly proud descendent of the Navaho.

"Glen, I am about the _last_ man who is going to second guess the decisions you made out there, you know that," began Ranford evenly as the two of them continued to make their way towards the ISSCV. "And in the end analysis, whether people like it or not, they'll have to accept what's happened if for no other reason than that you broke no law, no directive, no regulation in making contact with these people."

"I appreciate your support, General," muttered Ross somewhat sardonically.

"Don't thank me yet," replied Ranford, his words accompanied by a heavy sigh. "Keep in mind that with the Colonial petition for asylum is now in the hands of the United Nations Security Council, you'll likely still be called upon to answer some very uncomfortable and tedious questions while they consider the matter."

"I don't suppose they'd be happy with a forwarded copy of my report?" muttered Ross, already all too cognizant of the answer.

Coming to an abrupt stop, utter frustration taking hold, Commodore Ross looked blankly out at the horizon.

"Speak your mind, Glen," sighed Ranford as he stood there beside Ross.

"I'm just trying to understand," muttered Ross, frustration heavy in his voice. "I can appreciate caution, a need for security, but this is rapidly becoming…"

"Frustrating?" offered Ranford evenly.

"I was going to say 'a cluster-fuck'," countered Ross flatly, grinning a bit.

"_Your_ own report shows that you yourself had doubts about the Colonials when you first met with them," interjected Ranford. "And knowing you as I do, I'm betting even your doubts likely haven't been fully alleviated."

"My doubts can be argued away in the face of the plain facts at hand," countered Ross. "They fought, and some of them _died_, saving my fleet."

"But it wasn't an outright altruistic act, Glen, you've said so yourself," replied Ranford evenly. "They _are_ asking this planet to allow them to settle their people here, after all."

"But considering how much they've helped halt the Chig advance, do they really deserve to be treated with such a high level of suspicion?"

"For now, yes," answered Ranford flatly. "This war has truly put a knife to the last of our naiveté, Glen. No matter what, from now on whenever we look to the stars, we'll always remember, as a society, as a _species_, that when we ventured out there, we found danger and death wrapped in darkness and silence."

"From the Chigs, _not_ the Colonials," countered Ross flatly.

"To some people, that kind of distinction doesn't really matter," continued Ranford. "And while that _is_ the jaded perception of men and women who have been far removed from the realities of the front, it's not going to change simply because you want it to. Their assistance aside, there's a lot of unanswered questions, inconsistencies in their story that will have to be addressed."

"Granted," replied Ross, letting out a somewhat resigned sigh. "I suppose I just don't like the idea that we're fighting to protect our own freedom, our own _survival_, but we seem to be so quick to reserve judgment against the Colonials for doing nothing less than the same."

For a moment, the two men stood there, silent, both of them cognizant of the fact that deep frustrations would not be solved in the next few minutes.

"In any event, the fate of these Colonials is no longer a matter for the US military," began Ranford evenly, giving Ross' shoulder a slight nudge, prompting him once more towards the waiting ISSCV. "For better or worse, they'll be navigating the frothy rapids of the global bureaucracy from now on."

"Forgive me, General, if I don't take much solace in that," smirked Ross as he began making his way once more towards the ship that would be shuttling him back to the _Saratoga_.

"Trust me, Glen, I'd be _more_ worried about your sanity if you _did_," grinned Ranford as he gave Ross a friendly pat on the back.

"I don't suppose I need to ask whether there's been any movement on bringing Aero-Tech to task for _their_ role in precipitating this war," muttered Ross as they at last neared the waiting ship.

This time, it was Ranford who came to sudden stop.

"Glen…" he began, hesitating, clearly searching for a way to say something. "I could go into any number of textbook speeches on that subject, but you're my friend, so I'll spare you the bullshit. All I will say is this; right here, right _now_, Aero-Tech, any notions of culpability, believe me, just don't go there."

Subtle as it was, there was a clear warning in General Ranford's voice, a tone that was uncharacteristic of the typically straightforward man that Commodore Ross had known for literally decades.

But the fact that it _was_ out of character for Ranford leant far more weight to the warning.

Simply nodding his head, Ross came to attention and rendered a respectful salute, one which General Ranford quickly returned.

"By your leave, General," called Ross as the ship's engines began to wind up.

"Dismissed, Commodore," replied Ranford simply, at the last moment leaning in so as not to have to yell as loudly over the ship's engines. "Just make sure you have that guitar of yours tuned up cause I've got a bottle of twenty-five year old scotch in my desk and a whole new repertoire of ballads I've been waiting for you to get back to try out."

"All things being equal, I think I'd prefer going back to the front; less hazardous than your singing," grinned Ross as he turned and stepped up through the ISSCV's hatch.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Command Operations Center**

"Well, ladies and gentleman, in case you have not heard, the results from our first official election are in," began Commander Sean Kelso as he looked out at the other officers and ship's captains assembled around the massive plot table. "And while there were a couple small snags here and there, I think we can safely say that democracy is alive and well."

With that, Commander Kelso picked up the clipboard that had the certified results attached to it and slowly made his way around to the man the surviving refugees of the Twelve Colonies had selected as their new President.

"While you hold the respect of everyone in this room, sir, it is _my_ distinct honor to be the first to address you by your new title," began Commander Kelso evenly as he extended his hand. "Congratulations, President-Elect Bess."

Taking hold of Kelso's hand, Paul Bess did his best to humbly shrug off the applause, and none-too-few smart-ass comments from some of his former subordinates.

"Thank you, Commander, everyone, really, this _is_ an honor," replied Bess, grinning slightly as he took hold of the clipboard. "I suppose I should get working on my inauguration speech."

As a few chuckles sounded out around the table, Bess slowly set the clipboard down on the table, quite authentically still somewhat in disbelief that he had actually won, especially since he had not officially been in the running in the first place, his near landslide victory being the result of a groundswell write-in campaign.

"I'd just like to go one the record for having voted for you, Boss," chimed in Jaren Pelt, one of Bess' former supervisors from the Sagittaron boneyard.

"Forget it, JP, you're _not_ going to be on my cabinet," muttered Bess, grinning as he cast a sidewise glance over at his erstwhile subordinate. "Besides which, I won as a write-in candidate; I don't see you having enough forethought to have brought a pen with you to the polling station."

Pelt, for his part, simply chuckled.

"Gods, this means the _Asterica_ is going to have to be renamed _Colonial One_, now," said Mark Shipman, another one of Bess' former subordinates.

Again, another wave of chuckles ran through the room.

"But in all seriousness, congratulations, sir," continued Commander Kelso as the chuckles once more subsided.

"Thank you, Commander," nodded Bess as he gave Kelso one more firm handshake.

With that, Commander Kelso made his way back around to his other sizeable stacks of paperwork arrayed on the operations table.

"All levity aside, people, from what I've been told it will go a long way with regards to our petition for asylum and settlement to be able to present a _civil_ rather than a _military_ authority before Earth's United Nations Assembly," said Commander Kelso evenly as he settled back in at the table.

"Has there been any word yet on the status of our petition?" asked Colonel Runel evenly.

"Nothing definitive as yet, no," sighed Commander Kelso. "So far they've been quite ready to submit requests to us for more information regarding the Colonies, the Cylons, our military and civilian situation, but haven't been very forthcoming on exactly what _our_ status is."

"Have they at least given _any_ indication of how long they intend for us to gaggle about out here by their moon?" interjected Nakaya Foteva, the CO of the _Limnos_. "I mean, we've been sitting out here now for over a week."

"Red Tape would seem to be a universal constant," replied Commander Kelso somewhat wryly. "Let's just try to keep in mind, we may have been out here a week, but Earth's governments have only known about our existence a few short hours longer than that."

"And this is a pretty _big_ decision," added Colonel Briana Webber. "Somehow I doubt the process would have gone any faster had the situation been reversed, if they'd been the ones to arrive at the Colonies as refugees instead of us."

"But is it true, do they really claim to have no records regarding their exodus from Kobol?" asked civilian captain Jack Foster.

"So far that would seem to be so, yes," replied Commander Kelso evenly, himself truly beginning to look forward to being able to defer questions like that to the incoming President.

And judging from the look of Bess' face, it seemed he was silently aware that such nebulous questions would indeed be coming his way very soon.

"I just don't see how that's possible," continued Jack Foster, shaking his head. "How does a population of what, twelve-billion is it, not know how they came to settle on this world?"

"From everything we've been told so far, it would seem they truly believe they actually _originated_ on Earth," replied Commander Kelso evenly, himself remembering the absolute resoluteness in Commodore Ross when he'd expressed as much. "They think they evolved naturally on this planet."

"If that's true, might go a long way towards explaining their hesitation to let us settle here," offered Colonel Runel evenly.

"How so, Colonel?" asked President-Elect Bess.

"Well, what if they believe what they do because the records of the exodus from Kobol were _intentionally_ lost?" continued Runel. "Our own understanding of the exodus is fragmented at best, even we don't know exactly _why_ the Thirteenth Tribe left. What if their leaders made a conscious decision to _forget_ Kobol once they arrived here?"

"Then our arrival would be a reminder of a past they chose to forget," concluded Adrian Kelso evenly.

"But how does an _entire_ society forget?" sputtered Foster. "No matter how much control a government has, no matter how much you censor what's published, there's always some amount of truth that survives."

"And maybe there _is_, we just don't know about it yet," interjected Adrian Kelso evenly. "Maybe once we've settled, we'll be able to help them start reconnecting with that past."

"_If_ we are allowed to settle," corrected Commander Kelso as he glanced over at his father. "The issue is still undecided."

"They can't turn down our petition, they simply _can't_," said Major Amanda Tyle, a slight desperation creeping into her voice. "Not after everything we've already been through."

As he glanced across at _Proteus_' CO, it wasn't hard for Commander Kelso, or from the looks on their faces, anyone else in the room, to pick up on the desperation in her voice. For a moment, Kelso was left wondering just how deeply having her ship damaged and the resulting casualties had affected her.

"For now, all we can do is continue to plead our case," began Commander Kelso as he continued to eye Tyle, the young officer bowing her head slightly.

"They have at least fulfilled some of our logistical requests," began President-Elect Bess as he gently set the clipboard with the election results aside and retrieved another lying beneath it. "Food and some medical supplies have started to arrive, easing the strain on our own supplies."

"Has there been regarding our request to transfer some of our more seriously wounded to medical facilities on planet?" asked Major Kiana Jasper, the destroyer _Ikenga_'s CO.

"No," sighed Commander Kelso, shaking his head slightly. "I get the feeling they want to keep as many of our people as possible from stepping foot on Earth until a firm decision has been made."

"This is ridiculous," sputtered Major Paul Ambrose, CO of the _Adroa_. "Making us jump through hoops like this after we saved their collective asses."

With that, the group devolved into several smaller discussions, murmurs, even a few curses, all out of plain, simple frustration. Worse still, it was a frustration that Commander Sean Kelso not only understood but felt quite keenly himself.

It _was_ frustrating that they'd made the conscious decision to intervene, to put their lives on the line, to have lost good men and women in battle, only to run headlong into the hard wall of an indecisive bureaucracy.

But it also wasn't serving any of them any good to indulge the frustration.

For a moment, Commander Sean Kelso considered thumping his first against the table top, loud enough to get their attention, but not blatantly enough that it would announce his own aggravation, just enough to perhaps garner everyone's focus back upon himself.

But, surprisingly, even to the Commander's relief, it was Paul Bess who first and quite outright slammed his own fist down on the table like a fleshy gavel, cutting off the murmurings mid-sentence.

"This bickering is pointless, people…" he began simply as everyone looked over at him. "…I suggest we focus on the facts over which we have control rather than lament those over which we don't."

For a moment, silence held sway, until at last, with a slight chuckle, Bess yielded the attention back over to the Commander.

"You were saying, Commander," he said evenly.

"Thank you, Mr. President-Elect," chuckled Commander Kelso. "Now I know most of you have already begun to receive inquiries from the refugees aboard your ships…"

"Bombarded would be more accurate," interjected Mark Shipman. "Every time one of them looks out a porthole, you'd think the gods themselves were whispering to them that Earth's oceans are filled with ambrosia."

"Then I'd suggest we start painting over the windows because there's no way to tell how long this asylum process may take," continued Commander Kelso.

"Much as I hate to heap more fuel onto this fire, there's another problem we need to be prepared for," began Adrian Kelso evenly as he looked out at the others around the table. "Up till now, this fleet has been heavily dependent on civilian volunteers to fill positions on many of our ships, the decoms most especially. If we _are_ granted permission to settle on Earth, we're likely going to face nothing short of a mass exodus of manpower."

"Damned if he doesn't have a valid point," said Bess, shaking his head slightly. "My first official act might have to be instituting another stop-loss or, gods forbid, a draft."

"You do that and you can kiss any chance of re-election goodbye," muttered Mark Shipman wryly.

"More to the point, I don't think it will matter all that much," continued Adrian Kelso evenly. "_Galactica_, _Enceladus_, the _combat_ assets won't be too badly hurt, most of your crews are active military. But look at _Pacifica_, we got her out and away from the Cylon attack, but rescued crews aside most of my crew over there, myself included are long since past our prime."

"And I can't imagine there'll be much use for our passenger liners once all the refugees are back on solid ground," added Jack Foster, grinning slightly. "In getting our people here, we'll be pretty much putting ourselves out of a job."

As he listened to the conversation, Commander Sean Kelso began slowly sifting through the papers he had stacked in front of him.

Indeed, the idea of just what to do with the ships in the fleet once a place to settle had been found had never really been brought up before. More to the point, his father and Foster were right; if they were allowed to settle on Earth, there really was no real reason to even try and prevent the civilian-heavy crews from going down as well.

After a few moments, he found the page with the fleet census.

Taking out his pen, he began quickly scribbling several annotations on the sheet.

In very short order, the numbers played themselves out; even _if_ President-Elect Bess put another stop-loss into effect for military personnel, almost all the refugee ships would be little more than ghost ships.

But why would that be a concern?

Why should it be?

In very real terms, empty ships meant they'd served their purpose, right?

It meant their people had a new home.

As he looked at the census numbers, Commander Sean Kelso keenly felt as though her were missing something.

Then it clicked for him.

"Wait a second," began Commander Kelso, his eyes not leaving the lists and annotations before him. "Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. What if this isn't a _problem_, but an _opportunity_."

With nothing less than a smirk on his face, he finally looked up from the page, his gaze most decidedly on the civilian captains around the table.

"You've got that look in your eye again, son," said Adrian Kelso evenly.

"You're the second person to tell me I have a particular 'look'," chuckled Commander Kelso evenly as he looked over at his father. "But you're right, I do have an idea…"

* * *

><p><strong>Venice, California<br>****United States of America**

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Captain Nathan West listened but did not watch as the taxi drove off on down the road, leaving him there, hesitant at the edge of the walkway.

Dropping his seabag down onto the sidewalk, he simply stood there for a few moments, looking at the house he had known since he was a child, looking at the closed door, uncertain, almost as though he was no longer sure of what he would find behind it.

No, it wasn't necessarily the door itself that caused his trepidation, but rather the small Service Flag that hung in the window beside the door.

A simple square flag, white field with a red border

And in the center of that white field, two five-point gold stars

One was for his brother, Neil

The other apparently for him

His heart pounding a bit in his chest, Captain Nathan West simply left his seabag where it lay on the sidewalk as he stepped cautiously towards the door, almost as if he were expecting a Chig to be standing behind it rather than his own flesh-and-blood.

As he stepped up into the small awning, he slowly removed his cover, his eyes transfixed by the two gold stars.

Had the Marine Corps really told his family he was KIA, or had they simply given up, _assumed_ he was dead?

His hand shaking a bit, Nathan reached over and pressed the doorbell.

Inside he heard the gentle chime ring out through the long hallway a lifetime of experience told him lay beyond the closed door.

"Just a minute, please," called a voice.

It was the voice of his mother, Anne Marie West

Her voice, followed a moment later by the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor

Then came the sound of the door's deadbolt opening; his mother rarely ever looked through the peephole first

As the doorknob started to turn, Nathan was momentarily gripped by the utterly irrational impulse to turn; turn and run

Did he dare put his mother through this moment, of having her see him. From the gold star it was clear she had long since given him up for dead. Did he dare risk shattering her heart again, to let her seem him alive knowing that in very short order he would soon be called back to duty, back to combat, back to the possibility that the gold star meant for him might yet become real?

Too late.

In a moment, the door swung wide, but not nearly as wide as his mother's eyes as it registered in her thoughts just who it was that was standing in the awning.

"Nathan?" whispered Anne West.

No, her voice was just _barely_ a whisper, her face contorting in utterly pained disbelief.

"Mom " he began, his throat tightening up, choking out anything further he might have tried in vain to say.

For a moment, she simply stood there, uncertain; was she dreaming it, was he some sort of taunting nightmare? A ghost?

"My God, Nathan, is it really _you_?" she asked, her tone desperate, pleading, a choked sob cutting through her voice.

He couldn't move, his heart racing in his chest, he couldn't speak

So familiar, yet so different from his last memory; a shock of gray hair in stark contrast to the brunette strands he'd looked upon since his earliest memories; eyes surrounded by lines, wrinkles furrowed into her flesh by too-many hours spent weeping in sorrow.

Slowly, wordlessly, she reached out with her hand, pausing, her chest heaving with heavy, sob-choked breaths, hesitant that perhaps her touch might dispel what her fears were telling her was merely an apparition.

At last, her fingers touched the fabric of his uniform, brushed gently across the rows of ribbons on his chest, felt the rhythmic pounding of his heart, the warmth of his rapid breaths.

"Oh, dear God, Nathan, it _is_ you, isn't _it_?" muttered Anne, her voice free falling into sobs as she suddenly reached out and desperately grabbed up the man who would always be her eldest child into her arms.

Her tears flowing, no pretense of even trying to hold back her sobs, she cried, openly, fearfully, thankfully, her head pressed against his chest as he returned the embrace.

And then Nathan, too, began to cry.

"I'm so sorry," was all he could muster himself to say.

If she heard his entreat, it did not register in her expression, as the mother cupped her child's face in her hands and kissed his cheek, tears and sobs of unrestrained joy marring any attempts at words.

At last, her sobs subsiding for the briefest of moments, the mother looked up into her son's tear-swollen eyes.

"Damn it, Nathan, don't you know how to write?" she sputtered, a pained smile on her face as she gave his cheek an almost mocking slap.

He didn't know how long they'd stayed there on the awning, more to the point, he really didn't care.

All Captain Nathan West, United States Marine Corps, cared about was that for the first time in nearly two years, he was _home_.

He'd flown out into battle and had a plane blasted out from underneath him at the ass end of the universe, and now he was home.

With his seabag resting just inside the doorway, Nathan sat at the kitchen table while his mother almost fretfully poured him a cup of coffee.

As Nathan's mother made her way back over to him, her expression still betraying that she still half-expected him to have vanished while her back was to him, Anne set the cup down before him, settled slowly into a chair beside him, then scooped his hands up in hers.

"So where is everyone?" muttered Nathan simply as he sat looking into his mother's euphoric, if prematurely aged face.

For a moment, the unrestrained joy in her face flickered.

"There'll be plenty of time to talk about that later," she replied evasively.

Hesitating, she suddenly moved to stand back up.

"Oh, God, you must be hungry, you're hungry aren't you? You look so thin, what do you want me to make for you?"

Grinning, Nathan reached out and clasped onto his mother's hands, bidding her to stay in the seat.

"No, Mom, really, I'm fine," he said.

"No, you must be hungry," she continued fretfully. "Damned Marines, they never feed you boys properly. I know, pancakes, I can make you some pancakes."

"No, Mom, please, that's okay," he chuckled. "I'm fine."

Silent, she sat there, looking at him, at last reaching out to gently caress his cheek.

"Oh, Nathan, I'm still so afraid this isn't real," she whispered, tears welling back into her eyes again. "Please tell me you're really here."

Reaching up, Nathan took hold of his mother's gentle hand.

"I'm really here, Mom," he said simply. "Now, where are Dad and John? Don't tell me Dad is off on some business trip this weekend "

Again, his mother's expression wavered.

"Mom?" he said, his own tone taking on a pleading tone as his heart began to pound again.

It was his mother's expression; it said something to him, something he knew he didn't want to hear.

"Oh, Nathan," she whispered, fresh tears beginning to stream down her flushed cheeks. "Your father Richard he…"

The words didn't come to her, but they didn't have to; from her mournful tone, Nathan understood.

"How?" was all he managed to choke out.

"Heart attack," she replied, her gaze dropping away. "Four months ago."

Four months.

Shaking her head, she looked back up at Nathan.

"When the message came, the one from the Marine Corps that said you were missing…" again her voice trailing off for a moment. "First Neil died, and then thinking you were gone too; it was just _too_ much for him, Nathan."

His skin growing numb, Nathan sat there staring at his mother.

"Where's John?"

"He's staying with your Aunt Carol in Tahoe," replied Anne. "Oh, God, we need to call him, he needs to know you're alive and safe."

"In a little while, Mom," replied Nathan numbly, the harsh knowledge that his father had died still sinking in. "Just not right now…"

With an understanding nod, Anne West settled back into her seat.

"I can't believe Dad's gone," choked Nathan. "He died because he thought I was killed."

Pursing her lips a bit, Anne gave her eldest son a comforting stroke across the cheek.

"Oh, sweetheart, it's not your fault," she muttered, her tone only half-convincing that she hadn't spent these last four months thinking the exact same thing herself.

For a moment, the two of them simply sat there, silent, the two of them trying to absorb and process so much overwhelming emotion.

Then, as much because he couldn't think of any other damned thing to do, Nathan reached out, picked up the coffee, and took a sip.

"That's good," he smiled weakly. "Real coffee; I'd almost forgotten…"

At that, Anne West was on her feet once more.

"See, I knew it, a mother _always_ knows, Nathan," she said flatly. "You _are_ hungry, eating that god-awful Marine food. I'm gonna make you something."

With that, the kitchen became a fretful display of motherly love as she grabbed this pan, that egg, a measuring cup

But all of it was merely background noise to Nathan West, his mind numb, uncertain, mournful and reeling.

He felt as much in free fall as he had when he'd punched out of his damaged Hammerhead over four months ago.

So it was that as Anne continued her agitated dance around the kitchen, Nathan simply took another absent sip from the cup of coffee.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Senior Officer's Berthing**

With a startled gasp, Captain Jordan Gaines, her skin soaked in sweat, her heart racing, her breath ragged, sat upright in bed, her feverish eyes looking frantically about in the shadows for an enemy that was not there.

As the nightmare that had driven a wedge of sheer terror into her soul melted away, reverting to the calm, low-light serenity of her personal quarters, Gaines unwrapped the sweat-soaked sheet from around her previously thrashing legs and slowly kicked her feet over the bed's edge, trying to wrestle control back over her irregular breathing.

Running a hand up through her long hair, Gaines sat there, her nude body trembling, shaking, her mind fighting to come to full terms with just one though; it was only a _dream_.

What made it hard to rationalize such was that not too long ago, the terror she felt, the horror her mind had conjured up had been terrifyingly real.

The last horrible look in Captain Brenner's face as a round ripped through his skull, spraying his blood out across her face

The screams of a young man, whose name she'd never had a chance to know, his guts splayed out on the landing strip tarmac

The last terrible gasping breath of Sergeant Zaida Gibbs as she lay writhing in the dirt, a Cylon bullet having shredded her jugular

The horrific sound of hard, rhythmic feet, _metallic_ feet crunching through the forest

The desperation in Kieran Marius' eyes as death at last claimed him as he lay sprawled out over his own wife and unborn child's grave

Helplessness.

Horrors enough for a lifetime now intertwined with newer terrors.

The sights of dozens of utterly shredded and mutilated bodies on a hellish desert scape.

The howls of screams she'd never heard, but their terror something she could nevertheless feel down to her now-shivering bones.

Slowly dropping her face into her hands, the drenching sweat from her forehead squeezing between her fingers, rolling down her forearms, Gaines clenched her eyes shut in the low-light of her quarters, desperately trying to exorcise the images burned in her mind's eye.

At last, the quaking of her body stopped enough that she felt certain she could at least stand without collapsing to the deck.

With no small amount of effort, Gaines stood up and made her way towards the head.

With an annoyed slap of the hand, she hit the wall switch and turned on the light as she stepped towards the sink, resting her weight against it as she turned on the water and faced herself in the mirror.

With a cynical huff, Gaines resented how this seemed to have become part of her regular routine; the horrors of war, of her _profession_, haunting her relentlessly by night.

"Damned sure makes for a crappy way to start the day," she sighed as she splashed some cool water on her face.

Ironically, the nightmares were why she'd begun sleeping naked; what the hell point was there in wearing something to sleep when you'd just wake up in sweat-soaked clothing?

Pure practicality, it had simply become easier to only worry about just changing her sheets each day.

The odd part was that before the destruction of the Colonies, long before the nightmares, Jordan Gaines had always _needed_ to wear something in order to go to bed. Even if she had just been with a lover, she was compelled to put back on some underwear, a long shirt, she always needed _something_ to be on her body before she could sleep.

More than one ex-boyfriend had commented about that idiosyncrasy.

But what did that matter now, they were dead too.

Splashing still more water onto her flushed face, Gaines looked back up at herself in the mirror with a wry smile.

Whenever she'd had a lover, Gaines couldn't have slept naked to save her life.

Now that she slept in the buff every night, she had no lover beside her to enjoy it.

Not that she didn't have someone in mind

Then, with a frustrated, almost disheartened sigh, Gaines turned away from the mirror.

Here she was, having once again woken up from another utterly haunting nightmare and all she could think about was getting laid.

Stepping into her shower, Gaines turned it on knowing full well just how cold the first blast was going to be.

Sure enough, as the first jet of water sprayed out across her body, she let out a gasping howl as the ice-cold water sent a full-body shiver through her.

Soon enough, however, the water warmed, slowly melting away the mass of goose bumps on her skin.

Soap in hand, she began to wash the sweat and midnight grime from her body, trying desperately to erase the last vestiges of any thoughts that had to do with either horror, or biological distraction.

Slowly, the last haunting of the nightmare began to slink back to the edges of her mind.

But Gaines found she was having only the most limited of success excising her less-than-latent arousal.

With the warm water playing down across her skin, Gaines closed her eyes and lost herself in the idea, the desire, that her hands were anything but her own, but instead belonging to someone else.

* * *

><p>As she stepped out into the corridor, her uniform clean and pressed, hair tied back in a practical, yet admittedly somewhat flirty ponytail, Captain Jordan Gaines once more held a purely professional veneer.<p>

Admittedly, a difficult task considering she was feeling more than a bit self-conscious.

It was perhaps the most ingrained and lingering effect of her grandmother's attempts to expose her to the strictures of religious orthodoxy; even as an adult she always felt ashamed when she sexually gratified herself.

But damned if it didn't help get her mind off the nightmares, if only for a short while.

Looking first one way, then the other, Gaines reminded herself that no matter how many personnel were milling about, none of them could possibly know about her secret, scripturally-sinful activities in the shower. Thus, she simply took a deep breath, silently enjoyed the lingering self-induced afterglow, then started her way off along the corridor.

Her destination was the same as most any other morning; Commander Sean Kelso's quarters.

Ostensibly, officially, as the senior-most Marine officer left in the fleet, Captain Gaines met with the Commander every morning to discuss matters relating to the Marine detachments posted throughout the fleet. And again, ostensibly, _officially_, she was also the CO of his personal security detachment and could justify checking on him every morning to ensure her people were doing their job.

Personally, secretly, she just liked having an excuse to see him.

Her unrequited feelings for Sean Kelso hadn't yet become unlikely

And as in most things in her life, she was loathe to simply give up just yet…

As Gaines turned the last corner, she caught sight of the Marine posted outside the entry to Commander Kelso's quarters, the young man eyeing most everyone passing by.

No, not quite.

This particular morning, Lance Corporal Janson seemed to be paying extra-special attention to a female Petty Officer casting him a particularly flirtatious glance as she made her way past.

"Good Morning, Janson," barked Gaines, suppressing a slight smirk as she stepped up.

Startled by the sound of Gaines' voice, Janson instantly snapped to crisp attention, his eyes darting away from the departing Petty Officer's posterior as he rendered a salute.

"Good morning, Captain."

"So, Janson," began Gaines evenly as she stepped up in front of the young Marine. "From the amount of attention you were paying to that Petty Officer's ass, can I presume you think she poses some potential security risk?"

"No, ma'am," sputtered Janson, his face flushing instantly with embarrassment. "I was just..."

"Save it, Janson," sighed Gaines dismissively. "Is the Commander up yet?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Janson. "But I'm not sure he's in a very good mood."

Looking up at Janson, Gaines simply gave him a quizzical glance.

"Parker showed up with his chow a little while ago but he sent it back without even opening the door," said Janson. "The Commander didn't sound very happy when he told Parker to go away, either."

Nodding slightly, Gaines reached over and gave three hard thumps against the large entry hatch.

"What!"

Though muffled significantly by the sizeable hatch to his quarters, the sound of the Commander's voice was still sufficiently loud and annoyed enough that it almost startled Gaines.

"It's Captain Gaines, Commander," she said tentatively, half-wondering if knowing who it was would even matter if the Commander, normally so unflappable, was actually perturbed.

After a few silent moments, she heard the sound of the interior locking latch being unsecured, the hatch swinging open to reveal a visibly tense Commander Sean Kelso.

"Come on in, Captain," he sighed simply as he moved back off through his quarters.

Stepping in, Gaines gave Jansen a slightly apprehensive glance, then shut the hatch.

Taking a somewhat steadying breath, Gaines turned and saw the Commander on the far side of his sparse quarters, his back to her, hands on his hips as he slowly rotated his head as if working off some tension in his neck.

"This isn't the best time, Jordan," he sighed simply, not turning to face her as he finally reached up in slight frustration and began attempting to roughly massage out the knot that he apparently felt in his neck muscle.

"Good morning to you to, sir," she muttered.

Turning around, he looked at her for a moment, his face utterly vacant of anything but irritation.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, the vast gulf of his quarters between them.

Cognizant of the uncomfortable tension, even a bit unnerved by it, Gaines tried to disarm it a bit by casting him a slightly playful smirk.

For the slightest fraction of an instant, he seemed to resist the urge to smile in return, but only for that fraction, at last letting out a long sigh, grinning as he shook his head.

"You know, meeting me like this every morning in my quarters has probably given rise to a number of scandalous theories in the rumor mill by now," he began, taking a few tentative steps as he once again attempted to massage the knot in his neck.

"I've caught wind of a few, some are pretty creative," smiled Gaines as she made her way over to Kelso.

"Really?" he replied, his tone curious as he watched her slowly circle in around behind him. "What's the latest?"

"Suffice it to say if they knew the truth, I'd wager half the crew would be pretty damned disappointed," said Gaines as she reached up, playfully brushed his hand aside and nimbly began to massage the discernible knot.

Taking in a deep breath as she did so, Kelso couldn't help but close his eyes as she skillfully worked the tension away.

As she continued to massage his neck, Gaines then leaned in closer to him so that her lips were very near his ear.

"Not that I wouldn't mind a few being true," she whispered playfully.

Reaching up, Kelso stilled Gaines' hand as he turned to face her.

"I think we have enough complications in our lives right now, don't you?" he asked.

Her expression sinking from playfulness to subtle disappointment, Gaines nevertheless kept his gaze.

"There are always going to be 'complications', Sean," she sighed. "Question is whether a person is willing to live in fear of them."

"Forty-nine thousand nine-hundred and thirty-eight," said Kelso simply.

For a moment, she looked at him quizzically.

"The latest census of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol," he continued. "Counting deaths and births, right now we have forty-nine thousand nine-hundred and thirty-eight men, women and children huddled aboard this fleet, waiting, desperate for word as to whether Earth is going to grant our petition for asylum."

Canting her head slightly, Gaines continued to look at him, silent.

"For nearly two weeks now we've been hovering about out here waiting for some word, some indication as to which stance the United Nations is going to take."

"The relief supplies have continued to come, that's something at least," countered Gaines.

"Supplies that will likely be cut if they decide we have to go," sighed Kelso heavily.

"Gods, don't you _ever_ feel optimistic?" she shot back.

"I'm not being a pessimist," he replied defensively. "I'm being a _realist_."

"Fine, a realist," she nodded. "Then _be_ a realist; and in your reality, right now, you can't do any more to change their minds, and there's no point worrying until Earth's government has rendered a decision."

"That simple, huh?"

"Yes, that simple," she replied adamantly. "I'm a grunt, remember? I don't deal with theories; I deal with the facts on the ground, as they are."

"Aren't grunts always supposed to have a plan-B as well?"

"Right now plan-B is the same as plan-A, the same plan that has been in front of us since we busted through that Cylon blockade; find our people a new home," she said, her tone growing frustrated. "Gods, you make it sound as if we have two and _only_ two choices; settle on Earth or die."

"What else is there?" he asked wryly.

"Nuance," replied Gaines, scoffing slightly. "Say Earth doesn't let us settle here, who's to say they might not be able to help us find some other rock to drop the civvies onto?"

For a moment, his eyes flickered.

Damned if he _hadn't_ thought of that.

"You mean settle somewhere else?" he asked thoughtfully, pondering the idea as Gaines nodded slightly.

Pacing a bit, Kelso began to seriously ponder over the idea.

"Hell-of-a plan-B," he finally nodded. "Biggest trouble I see is this whole war with the aliens; we've pretty much landed with both feet in the middle of it, kind of difficult to extricate ourselves from it. Wherever we settled, we'd have to be ready if they retaliated against us."

Without so much as glancing up at her, Kelso pretty much smoothed his way past the fact that it was Gaines' team and their actions on the moon that had pretty much brought them into the war in the first place.

"And never mind how fraked up things could get if the Cylons finally manage to track us back down," he finished

"Well, we don't need to necessarily break contact with Earth entirely," replied Gaines evenly.

"Probably be best if we didn't any which way you look at it," sighed Kelso as he continued to mull over the idea in his mind. "Aliens and Cylons aside, even if we settle elsewhere, we're likely going to need to establish some sort of trade with Earth for supplies, at least initially."

"But our people will still have a chance to survive," grinned Gaines, clearly somewhat pleased with herself. "Might not be as perfect as plan-A, settling on Earth, but it's still a 'mission accomplished' if our people find a new home."

Before he could respond, another series of knocks echoed forth from the closed hatch.

Silent, Kelso turned and quickly made his way over to the entryway, undogged the locking latch, and swung the hatch open.

Out in the corridor, Major Trya Burke looked up from the clipboard in her hand, a wide grin on her face.

"Sir, we just received " began Burke excitedly as she took a tentative step in through the hatch.

Her voice, however, quickly trailed off when she glanced up and saw Captain Gaines standing in the center of the Commander's quarters.

From the look in her eyes, one would think she'd found them fully enthralled in the throes of passion rather than fully dressed.

Her grin fading fast, she took a deep breath, looked back over at the Commander, and cleared her throat as she simply handed the clipboard in her hands to him.

"We just received a communiqué, sir," she began, clearing her throat slightly as her tone reverted to all-business. "The United Nations General Assembly has called a formal session this evening and has requested an audience with both you and President Bess."

Although he was very much aware of the abrupt change in Burke's demeanor, the Commander more-or-less ignored it as took hold of the message.

"I've already ordered the flight deck to have a Raptor ready to transport you and President Bess at fifteen hundred hours," continued Burke evenly as she glanced over somewhat coolly at Gaines. "IFOR liaison has also relayed an approved approach trajectory and landing zone."

Nodding his head slightly, Kelso looked back up at Burke.

"Thank you, Major," he said, putting on what he hoped would be a defusing smile.

For a moment, he hesitated, trying to think of something else he could say to her.

You're a great XO...

You've done a hell-of-a-job...

But all the assorted platitudes just felt cheap as he stood there looking at Burke.

And it was that was going on with Major Burke, it was definitely a complication he didn't want to deal with.

Mentally shaking his head, Kelso filed it away once more under those things he simply could not change for the moment as he handed the message back to her.

"I'll meet you in CIC in a few minutes, Major," he said simply.

With a curt, officious nod, Burke turned and practically brushed aside Jansen as she made her way off along the corridor.

From the look on the young man's face, it seemed obvious he too had noted the abrupt change in Burke's demeanor, if not fully comprehending the reason for it.

As he slowly closed the hatch once more, Kelso turned back to Gaines.

"Well, a meeting with Earth's government," began Gaines evenly. "Feeling optimistic?"

Grinning, the Commander made his way back over to the chair over which he'd draped his uniform tunic.

"I'll let you know when I get back," he said as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "If we're lucky, though, a face-to-face meeting might give us a chance to better plead our case."

"Somehow I have a feeling you'll be able to do more than plead," began Gaines evenly as she took a few tentative steps closer. "I'd like to think I've learned enough about you to know you have a trick or two you'll be able to bring to the table."

"Can't help but think you're overestimating my charm a bit," said Kelso as he quickly fastened the buttons on his uniform.

"It's not charm I'm betting on in this case," countered Gaines as she continued to move towards him. "So far you've been able to come up with some pretty interesting solutions when the moment called for it."

"Maybe," he sighed, at last looking back up at Gaines.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, looking at one another.

For months now the two of them had danced around the obvious attraction they felt for one another. And while Gaines had made a game of it, throwing out the hints, at times almost taunting him with that attraction, they had as yet managed to play around the edge of the fire without being burned by it, if only because he'd been steadfast in the belief that it wasn't appropriate.

Or perhaps that was simply the lie he'd been telling himself.

For one austere moment, he considered it; had he truly so enmeshed himself with the dire task of ensuring the survival of this fleet that he'd grown uncomfortable with the idea of stepping outside that delicate bubble?

Gods knew Gaines was receptive to the idea of his affection; hell, she'd done just about everything short of painting a bright yellow line leading to her quarters.

"I think the one complaint I might have about you, sir, is that you think too much sometimes," Gaines said suddenly.

"What?" he sputtered, looking back up at her in surprise.

"You have a hard time turning of that analytical part of your mind," she continued, crossing her arms and canting her head slightly as she looked at him quizzically. "Just now, I could _see_ it, those gears in your braincase turning."

"Just trying to think up a trick or two for this meeting with the UN assembly," he grinned.

With that, he began making his way towards the entryway.

But before Kelso got more than a few steps, Gaines surprised him by suddenly grasping onto his shoulder, spun him back around to face her, then pressed herself firmly up against him. In an instant, his every sense was flooded by the sensation of being so close to her; the warmth of her body, her breath, and even before he could fully process those first sensations, much less react, she brought her lips to his in a deep, hungry kiss.

And for the first time, no rationale, no protocol, no reason to not utterly loose himself in that kiss came to his mind.

For a blissful eternity, the two of them remained in a deeply impassioned embrace, at last dancing within the heart of the fire, a fire fanned by months of their flirtatious brinkmanship.

As their lips finally parted, Commander Sean Kelso looked breathlessly down into her eyes.

So many months now they'd known one another, spoken often, confided much, joked even more, and yet at no other time had he seen so much vulnerability in her eyes.

"Well?" she whispered, her lips quivering ever so perceptibly, her breathing heavy.

For a moment, he stammered, breathless, his mind so utterly awash with surprise, arousal.

"What was that for?" he finally choked out.

"That...," she purred, planting one more gentle, brushing kiss on his lips. "...was for good luck; something to look forward to for when things get less 'complicated'."

Working to once wrestle control over his breathing, Commander Kelso was nevertheless more than a touch reluctant to let go as Gaines slowly pulled back from him.

"Now...," she began again, her voice a touch more forceful as she gently brushed her hands along the front of his uniform. "...get down to that planet and convince those frakers to let us settle on Earth."

* * *

><p><strong>USS <strong>_**Saratoga  
><strong>_**Temporary Pilot Berthing Area**

Alone.

For most of his short life, he'd felt alone.

It was a feeling he was all too well acquainted with.

But it didn't mean that Cooper Hawkes preferred it that way, not anymore.

With the _Saratoga_ now firmly docked in an Aero-Tech orbital drydock, her extensive battle damage was at last receiving long-overdue attention.

All over the ship, a veritable army of dock workers had descended upon the proud but battered carrier, swarming through her corridors with tools and torches even as the actual war-weary crew was granted extended leave en masse.

Nathan West included.

But with that exodus of familiar faces, Hawkes' felt a deepening sense of isolation.

Even now, looking out the porthole as another flight of ISSCV's departed for the surface of the world he'd been fighting so long and hard to protect, but never quite felt an affection for, all Cooper Hawkes could think of was the fact that down there he had no one.

The Wildcards had been the first real friends he had ever known.

The only _family_ he had ever known.

And it was here aboard the '_Toga_ that he had at last found a home.

Looking around for a moment at the sparse stateroom, Hawkes let out a sigh; insult to injury, not only had his friends been lost, but the actual stateroom they'd all called home had been blasted apart by a Chig attack months ago.

Not only the people but the place; all gone.

And so it was that he was still there, alone, clinging to the memories of his lost family, like a drowning man to a lifesaver, now set once more adrift upon the turbulent seas of uncertainty and solitude.

"Well, I can't say I like what you've done with the place."

The voice had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly that Hawkes practically spun around as if ready to fight. But half-way through his turn, the tone and tenor of the voice had time to register in Hawkes' mind so that by the time he was finally facing the imposing figure in the entryway, his expression was little short of delighted.

"Colonel!" snapped Hawkes as he took a few tentative steps towards McQueen.

Grinning slightly in that ever-so-stoic way that he had at Hawkes' unabashed surprised, Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen stepped in, casting a decidedly disparaging glance around at the sparse stateroom.

"Yeah, Chigs blew eveythin' up couple months ago," muttered Hawkes, his grin fading a bit as his gaze followed McQueen's. "They put me in here with some other guys; things just ain't the same anymore."

As his gaze slowly returned to Hawkes, McQueen couldn't miss the despondency evident in the young man's voice. Worse still, it was a sense of isolation that McQueen was able to understand all too well.

Even before the latest rounds of bigotry and oppression unleashed by an InVitro assassinating Secretary General Chartwell nearly two years ago, InVitros worldwide had suffered prejudice and segregation that even the staunchest attempts at affirmative action had yet to sweep away. Worse still, there was the simple fact that as InVitros they had no family to carry them through, none of the emotional support structures that it seemed natural borns all too often took for granted.

InVitros hadn't asked to be born.

But they seemed born to suffer.

"How are you doing, Hawkes?" asked McQueen softly.

Hawkes only managed a weak shrug.

"You missed West, Colonel," muttered Hawkes as he glanced around at the empty stateroom. "I think he went to see his family."

As McQueen took a few more tentative steps into the room, Hawkes' attention instantly snapped back his former CO.

"Wait, I thought that Chig blew off your leg?" said Hawkes flatly as he eyed McQueen's apparently functional appendage.

Pausing mid-step, McQueen looked over at Hawkes, his expression utterly blank for a moment before finally tugging up on the right leg of his uniform trousers.

Although it was clear that an attempt had been made to make the plainly artificial leg _look_ real, the stark lack of hair on the synthetic flesh nevertheless seemed to scream 'unnatural'.

"They _were_ going to medically retire me after my injuries," sighed McQueen as he let the pant leg fall back into place. "I had even begun closing escrow on a little farm in Shenandoah, Iowa, had my eye on maybe buying a few horses. But with the war going as badly as it has been, I was given an opportunity to get back into _this_ saddle instead so long as I agreed to let doctors slap this artificial monstrosity onto my stump."

"Does it work?" muttered Hawkes, his gaze still on McQueen's covered artificial limb. "I mean, can you still do stuff?"

"Well it can feel a little stiff when there's rain in the air," sighed McQueen as he made a show of walking on the artificial limb. "And I'll never be cleared for flight status again, but at the very least, serving as Captain Bolger's advisor has allowed me to avoid languishing in some forsaken cornfield, doomed to pilot a John Deere special the rest of my life..."

"Wrong," cut in a voice from behind, a voice that seemed to echo off the austere bulkheads. "Effective immediately, you will be serving as _my _advisor, Colonel McQueen."

Instantly, both Hawkes and McQueen snapped to crisp attention as Commodore Ross stepped into the cabin.

"At ease, both of you," grinned Ross as he stepped up to McQueen and extended his hand.

Silent, McQueen slowly took hold of Ross' hand.

As the two old friends stood there regarding one another for a moment, Ross' face held the faintest trace of a smile.

"I hear you've had some interesting experiences since I was shipped Earth-side, sir," sighed McQueen as he too grinned faintly.

"You could say that," replied Ross evenly. "At least if you call making contact with a hitherto unknown branch of the human race 'interesting'."

"Considering how they managed to knock the Chigs back onto their asses, I'd say that qualifies," replied McQueen, smirking slightly.

"And because of their help the _Midway _will have a chance for a more proper fitting out instead of wasting her as fodder in some ill-fated 'last stand'," continued Ross as he gently rested a hand on McQueen's shoulder. "I hope you don't mind that I pulled a string or two to get you back aboard the '_Toga_."

"Not at all, Commodore," replied McQueen flatly. "Captain Bolger is a fine officer, and the _Midway_'s will certainly be a fine ship, when she's complete, but the problem with new ships is that they don't have that lived-in feel I've come to enjoy about the _Saratoga_, sir."

Even as McQueen continued to speak, Ross couldn't help but begin to chuckle.

"I can't tell you how damned good to see you still standing, Ty."

"It's good to see you too, sir," muttered McQueen. "I certainly hope you didn't delay your leave just to see me aboard."

"You'd have to be awfully full of yourself to think such a thing, Colonel," grinned Commodore Ross. "No, I _will_ be leaving this afternoon. Two weeks of little more than keeping a bucket full of ice and long necks at my side while I kick my bare feet up on a crate and strum away on ol' Roslyn."

"I'd ask to join you," began McQueen evenly as he glanced down towards his artificial leg. "But these days I'm not very keen on going barefoot."

"I can certainly understand, old friend," sighed Ross.

"Of course, I can't help but note the irony of it," continued McQueen a moment later, a slight grin once more on his normally stoic face. "Me, an InVitro, bred to fight the AI's, and now here I stand, my own missing leg replaced by what amounts to nothing more than a Silicate's leg."

"Even one-legged, you are still more a man than most I've met, Ty," countered Ross. "But I'm not here just to inflate your ego."

"I didn't imagine so, sir," replied McQueen evenly as Commodore Ross turned to the till-now silently observing Hawkes.

"Something came in through S-One this morning that I just had to deliver personally," said Ross as he stared blankly over at Hawkes. "Lieutenant Cooper Hawkes, front and center."

Obediently, if somewhat confused, Hawkes came to attention in front of Commodore Ross as McQueen, unaware as to what the Commodore had in mind simply looked on.

"Hawkes, I'm not going to sugar coat this," began Ross as he looked sternly over at the young man. "Almost seven months ago on Anvil, you and the rest of the Fifty-Eighth engaged in an act that some regard as, at best, a grievous error in judgment, at worst, out-and-out treason."

From the expression on Hawkes' face, it was clear the confused young man was preparing himself mentally for hearing some seriously bad news from the Commodore.

For his part, it was truly a measure of just how far the brash young Hawkes had come in his maturity, as a man, as an officer, that he hadn't already broken down into a litany of protest. Two years ago, it wouldn't have been out of character for Hawkes to have potentially thrown an outright swing at the kind of dressing down he was receiving from Ross.

But as Ross had shown affection for the Five-Eight, so too did Hawkes respect the Commodore.

"Now, son, I want you to hear this, CFB," continued Ross evenly. "From the moment I first reported for my debrief at the Pentagon, I've had to answer some _very_ serious questions about what happened down on Anvil; very serious, very _uncomfortable_ questions."

"Sir, if I may..." began McQueen evenly, his voice cutting off abruptly when Ross held up his hand.

"I'm speaking to Lieutenant Hawkes, Colonel," said Ross evenly.

Taking a deep breath, Ross continued to eye Hawkes, his expression cool, stern.

"Now, I was able to ignore what happened if for no other reason than that the Chigs very quickly turned us back and had us against the ropes," continued Ross, inching ever closer to Hawkes. "When asked, it has always been my defense that keeping you on flight status was simply because I needed every last damned pilot available to help get this fleet home."

Again, to his credit, Hawkes didn't flinch in the least.

"But now we _are _home, Lieutenant, and I want to know, right now, are you prepared to face the consequences for your actions on Anvil? Are you ready to face the fall-out of those choices, no matter how severe?"

Looking Ross dead in the eye, Hawkes didn't flinch, didn't waver.

"I stand by our actions, sir," replied Hawkes evenly. "With the information we had on Anvil, the decision we made, to show mercy even in the middle of a war, it was the _right _decision. Anythin' else, and we're no better than the Chigs."

"That's exactly what I expected you to say, Lieutenant," muttered Ross, nodding his head slightly as Hawkes continued to gaze obliquely at him. "Eyes front, Mister."

Breaking eye contact, Hawkes looked straight ahead, bracing himself, waiting, certain that at any moment, two, four, a whole platoon of Master-at-Arms were going to come through the hatch to haul him away to the brig.

Instead, Commodore Glen van Ross took one step back and snapped to attention before Hawkes.

"Colonel McQueen, take your post."

Perplexed for a moment, McQueen nevertheless obediently snapped to attention and slid into place one step behind and to the left of Commodore Ross.

It was then that Ross slowly lifted up a single sheet of paper he'd apparently been holding in his hand and cleared his throat.

"To all who shall see these presents, greeting," began Ross evenly. "Know ye that, reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities of Cooper Hawkes, I do appoint this officer a _Captain_ in the United States Marine Corps "

As the words at last began to register in Hawkes' mind, as he truly realized that this was anything but an ass-chewing taking place, he was gripped by an even more potent emotion; stunned disbelief. As the Commodore continued to read off the commission warrant, Hawkes mind was utterly swimming. Not so long ago, the Marine Corps had been a _sentence_, a punishment levied against him for little more than surviving an attempted lynching at the hands of racist pansies in some Philadelphia slum..

And now he was being promoted to Captain?

Making the jump from butter-bar to first lieuy was no big deal; even _he_ would have had to screw up pretty badly not to get up to silver bar in the middle of a war.

But Captain?

His gaze wavering for a moment, Hawkes looked over towards McQueen, his expression half-imploring his former squadron CO for a way out.

Nope, forget that, he wasn't going to be getting any help from his fellow InVitro.

From the expression on Colonel McQueen's face, he seemed amused by the idea of Hawkes making Captain.

No.

Not amused.

Proud.

Tyrus Cassius McQueen was visibly _proud _of Hawkes.

It was etched in every feature of the man's weathered face.

Even more surprising, Hawkes felt a surge of pride himself.

And so, as Commodore Ross completed reading off the promotion warrant, Hawkes stood a little taller, his gaze was a little straighter, his chest was puffed out a little broader.

For the first time, Hawkes felt he understood what it was McQueen truly felt when he called himself a Marine.

And for perhaps the very first time, Hawkes himself truly, deeply, completely claimed that title for himself as well.

For the first time, Cooper Hawkes _felt_ he was a Marine.

As Commodore Ross finished reading off the promotion warrant he handed Colonel McQueen one of a pair of Captain's bars as both he and Ross stepped up beside Hawkes, pinning them into place.

With the shiny new bars now in place, Commodore Ross and Colonel McQueen stepped back into place before him. Handing the warrant off with his left hand, Ross then took Hawkes' right hand in a firm, ceremonious shake.

"Stand at ease, _Captain_ Hawkes," said Ross evenly.

Lifting the warrant up, reading over the text, still not entirely convinced that this wasn't some abstract hoax, Hawkes grinned a bit as he did indeed see his name emblazoned upon the page.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Hawkes," sighed Ross as he watched Hawkes. "There's a lot of people down on planet that would probably have preferred that were an arrest warrant in your hands rather than a promotion warrant."

"I almost thought it was gonna be, sir," muttered Hawkes as he looked back up into the Commodore's face. "I figured the only reason you let me keep flyin' was because everyone else was dead."

"Son, let me explain it this way," began Ross evenly as he gently took hold of the warrant again. "I can't abide men who second-guess without taking context into account. What you and the rest of the Fifty-Eighth did on Anvil _requires_ context. What right do we have to fight for our own survival if we cannot keep a firm hold on the values and ethics that make us _worthy_ of survival?"

"Sir, are you saying what we did was..."

"What I'm saying, Captain, is that the moment it becomes acceptable to kill non-combatants simply because they are in the way, we all lose," replied Ross evenly, his gaze not leaving Hawkes. "If humanity is to survive, the best qualities about our species are to survive, we cannot afford to let go of our better natures, not even in war."

* * *

><p>"I have to admit, I thought he was going to deck you for a moment there, Commodore," sighed McQueen as he and Ross made their way through the <em>Saratoga<em>'s almost-deserted corridors.

"That crossed my mind as well," smirked Ross. "For now, though, I think he's too stunned to do little more than sit there on his bunk looking at that commission warrant for a while."

"Considering you managed to force through West's promotion, can I assume you did so for Hawkes as well?"

"You should have seen the look on the Judge Advocate General's face," replied Ross, his smirk growing into a wide smile. "The moment I made it clear to the Joint Chief's that my resignation would follow any formal charges against either West or Hawkes, you'd have thought I'd pulled the pin on a grenade and set if down on that solid oak table of theirs."

"And none of them pointed out the fact that you can't resign during a period of active war?"

"No," replied Ross, shaking his head. "I think the very idea I would even consider resigning had them too flabbergasted to even speak."

"I imagine your establishing contact with these new, how do I put it...," began McQueen, pausing as he looked for a word other than 'alien' in his vocabulary. "I guess the best term would be people; what is it they call themselves?"

"Colonials," replied Ross as the two of them passed by an Aero-Tech repair crew, the two of them doing their best to avoid the shower of sparks raining down from the team's weld work. "As in the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, whatever the hell that is."

"Well, whatever they call themselves, I imagine making contact with a potential ally in this war went a long way towards adding some shine to your star in that room, sir," finished McQueen.

"Perhaps," muttered Ross as the two of them turned a corner. "Can't take too much credit, though, Colonel, after all it was the Colonials themselves who decided to intervene on _our_ behalf. In any case, I'd say that the Joint Chiefs have enough on their plate already to worry much about two junior officers for what amounts to a humanitarian mistake."

"I heard on the network this morning that a Colonial delegation is meeting with the UN General Assembly to discuss their settlement petition," said McQueen.

"The Assembly would have to be damned fools not to consider it," replied Ross flatly. "The only real question is whether _we_ are ready for it."

* * *

><p><strong>United Nations Governing Assembly Building<br>****Strasbourg, France  
><strong>**May 2065**

For the better part of the last six hours, Commander Sean Kelso had sat stoic, silent, his presence reduced to an attempt to not appear bored as delegate after delegate filed down to the podium and little more than assailed President Bess with questions.

Where were the Twelve Colonies?

What were the Cylons?

Why had they chosen to fight the Chigs?

Were they really human?

Most of the questions, mundane and repetitive as they were at times, were nevertheless fielded by President Paul Bess rather well, at least as well as could be considering the Colonials themselves didn't yet have all the answers to some of them.

So it was, taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso fought to suppress a yawn as he looked back over at President Bess, the former boneyard administrator turned reluctant politician smiling ceremoniously at the lithe woman in ornate, flowing orange and yellow robes staring back at him from the podium at the center of the General Assembly hall.

"As I have stated before, Madame Delegate," began Bess evenly, his tone betraying little of the annoyance he must have no doubt felt at once more fielding an already answered question. "Due to a severe navigational error that occurred during our escape from the Twelve Colonies, we are currently unable to triangulate the position of our former homeworlds."

For a moment, the woman opened her mouth, as if about to ask a follow-on question, but stopped and simply nodded.

"Very good, President Bess, I thank you for your time," she muttered as she slowly collected the few note cards she'd brought with her to the podium. "I have no further questions, Madame Secretary General."

At that, the Secretary General of the United Nations, Diane Hayden, nodded her head gently.

"Thank you, Delgate Bhatnagar," smiled the Secretary General, her expression cordial as the delegate from the Republic of India made her way back to her seat. "Is there anyone else who wishes to ask a question of our guests?"

For a moment, a low murmur made its way through the massive assembly hall, filling Commander Kelso with hope that perhaps the political ordeal might at last be coming to an end.

A hope that was for naught as a very severe looking woman stood up from her seat.

"Madame Secretary, I have a question for the representatives of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol," said the woman evenly.

Looking first over at the subtly fatigued President Bess, then over at the Secretary General Hayden, Commander Kelso let out a long, almost petulant sigh.

"Very well," sighed Hayden evenly, forcing a cordial smile onto her features. "The chair recognizes the delegate from the Russian Federation."

With that, the woman stepped away from her seat and began making her way briskly down the aisle towards the podium.

"Is it me or does she look a bit like Captain Gaines?" whispered President Bess, covering the mic of the translator headset he was wearing with his hand as he spoke.

Cued by Bess' statement, Commander Kelso looked closer at the woman and had to admit, at a glance, the woman did indeed look very much like Captain Jordan Gaines.

Slim, athletic figure, long blonde hair

But that was where the similarities ended in Kelso's mind.

There was a distinctly stern manner with which the woman moved, each step, each motion seemed driven, purposeful. The woman likewise sported a decidedly utilitarian set of thin-rim glasses and kept her hair in a very tight bun. Even the immaculate creases ironed into her business suit seemed a bit too severe for her civilian attire.

In appearance she might have looked like Gaines, but in demeanor, the woman reminded him more of Major Tyra Burke. Cool, severe, perhaps even a bit calculating; much more in line with how Burke carried herself

As the woman finally stepped up to the podium, she very studiously set down a small stack of papers onto the podium surface, took a very deliberate sip of water from a cup offered to her by an attendant, then looked up at President Bess, her expression utterly unreadable.

"President Bess, as we have all been given access to the extensive dossier submitted to this esteemed body by your, shall we say, 'government', I will spare you the tedium of asking questions which have already been answered," began the woman evenly, the somewhat derisive way she'd spoken the word 'government' evident even through a translator. "What I will ask is the single most important question that my government considers relevant in regards to your petition for settlement."

"By all means," smiled Bess.

"If you are allowed to settle your people on Earth, what are you prepared to offer in return for the significant logistical and economic aid that such a settlement would entail?" asked the Delegate flatly, pausing long enough to take another studious sip from her cup. "After all, such a significant request can surely be understood as needing an equally significant commitment on your part."

Taking a slight breath as he regarded the woman at the podium, President Paul Bess nevertheless did not shirk away from the severity in her tone.

Quite the opposite in fact.

With a smirk that bordered on gratuitous, President Bess casually took a sip from his own glass of water.

"Before I answer, Madame Delegate, might I request the dignity of at least knowing your name?" smiled Bess as he slowly set his own glass back down.

"Ambassador Alina Egorova of the Russian Federation," she replied dutifully. "Now if you would please answer my question."

Taking a deep breath, Bess regarded her for a moment, glanced out around at the other waiting delegates, then down at Commander Kelso.

"Delegate Ergova " began Bess evenly.

"_Egorova_," corrected the woman sternly.

"Egorova, of course, I apologize," smiled Bess, at least to Kelso's ears, the President's tone indicating that the mispronunciation had little to do with an actual misspeak. "The details of what we are prepared to offer in return for settlement are likewise in the dossier we submitted to this esteemed body "

"I am interested in hearing it directly from you, President Bess," interrupted Egorova flatly.

From the tone of her voice, her very demeanor, it was clear that for whatever reason she was intentionally being confrontational, presumably in order to try and fluster Bess.

But to his credit, the freshman Colonial President did not waver.

"Very well, Delegate Egorova," grinned Bess as he let out a long sigh, pausing long enough to look over at Kelso.

And as their eyes met, the Commander felt a slow tingle in his spine as the President's lips spread in a wide grin.

"I believe at this time, it would be appropriate for me to turn over the podium to Commander Sean Kelso, the commanding officer of Colonial military forces and one of the chief architects of our proposal."

Having sat there silent, indeed largely ignored really for the last six hours, it took a moment for the Commander to fully grasp that President Bess had little more than pulled a political sidestep at his expense.

After staring blankly up into the blatantly amused face of President Bess, Commander Kelso mouthed a silent curse to the gods as Bess bid him to the podium.

Standing up from his seat, his legs aching a bit from non-use, Commander Kelso cleared his throat as Bess relinquished the podium.

Now squarely in the proverbial hot-seat, Commander Sean Kelso looked over at the subtly impatient Russian Delegate.

"Delegate Egorova " began Commander Kelso evenly, grinning slightly.

"One moment," interrupted the Russian Delegate flatly. "Would you, for the record, please state your name and position within your government?"

"Of course," smiled Kelso, a somewhat more forced smile to say the least. "Commander Sean Kelso, Commanding Officer, Warstar _Galactica_, senior officer of the surviving military forces of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol."

"_Surviving_ military forces," muttered Egorova thoughtfully. "The implication of that being that both your government and greater military establishments were destroyed, correct?"

With an angry tingle working its way up his spine, Commander Kelso felt himself go flush as he fought, _hard_, to maintain what was now a purely diplomatic smile.

"Accurate in so far as our civilization was the victim of a massive, widespread and brutal sneak attack, yes," replied Commander Kelso flatly, his smile at last fading a bit.

"And yet you would have this council believe that although you were unable to prevent the destruction of _your_ civilization, your forces will be able to somehow be the saviors of _ours_?"

Esteemed delegate or not, Egorova's brutally confrontational bearing was quickly pissing Kelso off.

"Madame Delegate, I thought you had a question about what our government is willing to contribute to Earth," countered Kelso evenly, fighting hard not speak through clenched teeth. "If so I would ask you to get to your actual question."

Whether from his tone or from the way his jaw was clenched, judging by the way Egorova raised an eyebrow at his reply, she must have picked up on the simmering anger her statement had evoked.

Question was, would she count it as a victory of some sort, or a miscalculation?

For better or worse, however, the situation was diffused somewhat by Secretary General Hayden chiming in.

"Delegate Egorova, I would remind you that this assembly is about openness and friendship, not recriminations, no matter how thinly veiled," stated Hayden evenly, her tone calm yet firm. "President Bess and Commander Kelso are our guests and should be treated with the same courtesy and respect due to any other member of this assembly."

"I apologize, Madame Secretary General," replied Egorova coolly as she returned her attention to Kelso.

As Egorova once again met his gaze, Commander Kelso was still very much fighting down the sting of anger the woman had stirred up, as much because he doubted there was even an iota of sincerity in her 'apology'.

No, she'd meant for her comment to irk him.

"Commander Kelso, I would appreciate it if you would, in your own words, describe what it is your government is willing to provide our governments in return for allowing your refugee population to settle on Earth."

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso looked away from Egorova and out at the General Assembly as a whole.

"As President Bess has already expressed, we, the survivors of the Twelve Colonies are very much aware of the enormity of what it is we ask in bringing our petition before this assembly," began Kelso, trying for the most part to ignore Egorova. "Asking your world to absorb a population, even one as relatively small as our own, is no small favor."

Taking a breath, Commander Kelso cleared his throat, quite intentionally avoiding eye contact with Egorova as he continued to look around the assembly hall.

"First and foremost; we offer direct military assistance," continued Kelso evenly, the edge of anger at last beginning to abate from his tone. "We are prepared to conduct joint military operations with the United Nations International Forces, not only in defense of Earth itself, but also in prosecuting those offensive operations which will most swiftly bring a decisive end to this war."

Surprisingly, most especially to Egorova, a subdued wave of applause actually passed through the hall. Not everyone, not by far, but enough of the delegates at least to somewhat assuage the sense Kelso had that everyone there was as hostile to their presence as Egorova.

Heartened somewhat by that, Commander Kelso continued.

"Additionally, we are prepared to assist your aerospace industries in the acquisition of Faster-Than-Light jump technology on par with our own systems."

"How exactly?" interjected Egorova flatly.

"We will turn over the complete technological, engineering and metallurgical information for our faster-than-light systems," replied Kelso evenly. "But, more importantly I should think, if we are allowed to settle our refugee population, we are prepared to turn over the various civilian vessels in our fleet to you for direct reverse-engineering."

At that, there was an excited murmur that rolled through the assembly of delegates.

"Is that the limit of what you are willing to provide?" asked Egorova pointedly.

Pausing, Kelso looked once more over at Egorova, at the subtly impatient expression on her face, wondering if there was something specific she was searching, or perhaps more accurately, had been instructed to search for in his responses.

Taking a deep, steadying breath Kelso cracked the wryest of grins.

"No it's not actually," he said flatly, shaking his head slightly. "In reviewing the materials this council has provided to us regarding the current war with these 'Chigs' as you call them, we believe we have identified a decisive shortcoming that your forces have faced in prosecuting this war."

"Commander, I feel I must take this moment to remind you of the innumerable brave acts and heavy sacrifices our forces have made in this war before you say something that might be interpretable as disrespectful to their efforts and memories," stated Secretary General Hayden evenly.

"No disrespect is intended, Madame Secretary," replied Kelso evenly, turning just enough to look over the Hayden as he spoke. "Having had opportunity already to fight alongside the men and women of your armed forces, I assure you I and my fellow officers have nothing but the utmost respect for them. What I am referring to is a deficiency this council has itself stated to us as being a critical difficulty in planning your campaigns; the transport of sufficient troops and materiel needed to seize and hold territory."

Turning back to the assembly of delegates, Kelso looked over at Paul Bess just long enough to receive a consenting nod from the President.

"As with the civilian ships in our fleet, should our population be allowed to settle, we would be in a position to turn over to the International Forces the _Limnos_ and _Kilkis_ for refit and recommissioning into your fleet," stated Commander Kelso evenly. "With these vessels restored to full operation, you would be able to transport, land and supply far larger ground forces on the battlefield."

"Commander, let me be sure I understand what it is you are saying," began Secretary General Hayden evenly as she leaned forward in her seat. "You are promising to turn over two of your combat vessels to us?"

"Not combat vessels, per se, Madame Secretary," grinned Kelso as he again looked back over at Hayden. "While the _Limnos_ and _Kilkis_ were once a part of the Colonial Fleet, they were demilitarized when decommissioned, they would need to be rearmed, the computers updated to be compatible with your systems. But, were we to turn them over to your service, your forces would be able to transport far larger contingents of ground troops and equipment for landing operations."

As before, an excited murmur passed amongst the delegates.

And as before, if Egorova was in the least bit affected or fazed by Kelso's statement, it did not show. Taking another calculated sip from her cup, the Russian Delegate gave an impassive glance around the assembly hall as the others slowly fell back into silence.

Then, clearing her throat, Egorova gave Commander Kelso an utterly cold grin.

"According to the dossier you turned over to this council, there are _five_ vessels in your fleet that are actually decommissioned warships, Commander, not two," stated Delegate Egorova evenly.

"Technically, that is correct," replied the Commander.

"And of those five, you are only willing to turn over two, yes?"

"That is correct," repeated Kelso, letting out a slightly annoyed sigh as he did so.

"And what of the other three, Commander Kelso?" continued Egorova as she glanced down at her notes. "_Proteus_, _Asterica_ and _Pacifica_ I believe they are called. Surely you do not intend for these potentially powerful warships to merely rust in space while a war is on, why not turn them over to as well?"

"_Proteus_, while _officially_ decommissioned when our homeworlds were destroyed was nevertheless, indeed fortuitously, still fully combat-capable," began Kelso, holding Egorova's cool gaze. "As such she is still counted amongst our current combat assets. Once repairs are completed, she will continue to serve alongside the remainder of our military forces."

"And what of the _Asterica _and _Pacifica_, Commander?" asked Egorova pointedly.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso gently drummed his fingers on the podium as he looked across at Egorova.

"What we have brought before this Assembly, Delegate Egorova we feel is a fair proposal," began the Commander evenly. "If we settle here, then the protection of Earth will be our utmost priority. Of that there should be _no_ doubt. But, in every negotiation there must be give and take, limits to what each side is willing to offer, or should be expected to give up, otherwise, it is not negotiation but extortion. Until circumstances warrant otherwise, _Pacifica _and _Asterica _will remain under Colonial control."

* * *

><p><strong>Venice, California<br>****United States of America**

Although he'd been home for a week now, as he walked slowly around the room he'd known since childhood, Nathan West was still numb to the idea that he was in fact actually there. Pausing, he looked at the picture on the wall, a moment captured a lifetime ago, two young boys, smiling, laughing; Nathan and his younger brother Neil.

And right beside it, another photo, the smiling face of a woman, _the_ woman, the reason he'd joined the Marine Corps in the first place; Kylen Celina. Little more than despondency had driven him to join the Corps, the desire for a chance to be back in her arms after they'd been unjustly separated from one another on the Tellus mission. But when the enemy attacked Tellus, it had evolved into an obsession to find her, a seemingly forlorn compulsion to rescue her from the Chigs which served to carry him through so many brutal engagements with the enemy.

Strangely, after having spent so much time in the pursuit of her, Nathan had yet to even contemplate the possibility of actually calling Kylen since he'd been home. Indeed, by all rights it was likely that, like his parents, she too had long since given him up for dead.

Curiously, that didn't bother him nearly as much as it once might have.

All the time he'd spent in combat, longing to find her he'd at times been a man possessed, going so far as to violate orders once in the hopes of rescuing her from the Chigs.

But that last time, when he'd finally found her and brought her home aboard a crippled ISSCV in the midst of a harrowing attack by the Chigs, Nathan West had come to realize just how much had changed in him.

That day, he'd rescued the love of his life...

And lost three of the closest friends he had ever known...

"You've been home a week now, Nathan," muttered a voice from behind. "Don't you think it was time you let her know you were here?"

Turning, half-embarrassed, Nathan looked over to see his mother standing in the doorway.

"I just don't know what I'd say to her," replied West somewhat sheepishly.

"Say what's on your heart, Nathan," stated Anne West as she stepped up beside him. "She came by not long after you were declared missing..."

Looking back over at the photo of Kylen, Nathan began to shake his head.

"So much has taken place, so much has changed," he said simply.

Wrapping her arms around Nathan, Anne West gently leaned her head against her son's shoulder.

"Aunt Carol is driving down with John, he's so excited to know you are home," smiled Anne. "You'd think he was ready to run the entire way back here from Tahoe just to see you."

"Well if I remember Aunt Carol, she's got him so pumped full of sugar he might just be able to," grinned Nathan as he continued to stare at the pictures on the wall.

"I've been afraid to ask, but when do you have to go back?" asked Anne West as she slowly pulled back from her son.

"I've still got three more weeks of leave," he replied evenly.

"Well, that's the least they could do," scoffed Anne as she slowly made her way back out into the hall. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

Pausing, Anne West looked back over at Nathan as he stood looking at the pictures.

"You really should give her a call, Nathan," she said simply.

With that, Anne West went back out towards the kitchen.

For a few more minutes, Nathan stood there looking at Kylen's picture.

Should he call her?

What would he say to her if he did?

What would she have to say to him?

Would she even want to know he was alive?

Letting out a deep sigh, Nathan turned and began making his way down the hallway, the sound of plates and utensils clanging together echoing a bit as his mother prepared dinner.

Stepping out into the living room, Nathan caught the end of a news report on the TV; hardly worth his attention, simply some fluff piece about an animal adoption drive.

Continuing on towards the couch, Nathan's eyes caught sight of the phone resting on the end table. Pausing, he thought about his mother's telling him that he should call Kylen.

Tentatively picking up the phone, Nathan simply held it as he more-or-less plopped down onto the sofa, a long established habit that had for close to two decades now incurred his mother's ire.

And in spite of everything else, tonight was no different.

"My goodness, Nathan," came his mother's voice from the kitchen. "You can fly that plane of yours to the end of universe and back but you can't remember not to flop down on that couch. I swear it's going to just break one of these days."

Chuckling for a moment at his mother's long-worn admonishment that the couch was somehow on the verge of splintering apart, Nathan enjoyed that simple pleasure, savoring the very idea that he was even here to be chastised for dropping onto the sofa; it was far more pleasant than he could have guessed.

Soon, however, his attention returned to the phone is his hands.

For all the trepidation he felt at the idea of calling Kylen, though, it might as well have been a Chig hand grenade resting in his grip.

"_Returning now to our top story tonight, protesters continue to rally outside the UN General Assembly hall tonight as representatives from the Twelve Colonies meet with the Earth Commonwealth government here in Strasbourg, France_."

Distracted by the news feed, Nathan looked up at the screen and saw the image of angry protesters chanting, holding up signs, restrained, just barely, by makeshift barricades and a thin line of police.

"_For more on this story, we go live to our on-scene reporter Andrea Wilkins; Andrea_?"

"_Thank you, Tom, as you can see the crowd here outside the UN General Assembly building is hardly a welcoming committee for this new potential ally in the war against the aliens_," began the reporter as a small group of people behind her jockeyed for position, shouting and parading their signs into the camera's field of view. "_Ever since the envoy from the Twelve Colonies of Kobol arrived several hours ago, protesters have been assembling here despite the early morning chill, in some cases arriving by the veritable busload to express their opinions, or in some cases outrage to just about anyone who's willing to listen_."

Shaking his head slightly, Nathan watched as the live feed dissolved into what was apparently a prerecorded interview with a somewhat less-than-attractive woman holding a sign written in French.

"_We don't know anything about these people, who they are or where they come from,_" began the woman, her voice dubbed over by a translator. "_Who are they to show up asking for a place to live here? It's preposterous_."

Again the picture shifted to another interview, this time a visibly excited, indeed, angry man missing his left arm below the elbow.

"_I fought with the de Gaulle brigade on Demios_," began the man angrily, his voice likewise dubbed over by a translator. "_I didn't lose my arm and watch my entire regiment get slaughtered in that hell by Chigs just to welcome some other aliens to settle here, let them go away and not come back. Earth for the citizens of Earth only_!"

Scoffing in light disgust, Nathan watched as the image returned to the reporter herself.

"_As you can see, Tom, feelings are running pretty high here_."

"_Andrea, has there been anyone there that you've been able to find who are sympathetic to the idea of allowing these Colonials to settle on Earth_?"

"_If there are any, Tom, they're keeping a low profile, the mood here would seem to be overwhelmingly against the idea_."

Again, the image dissolved into yet another prerecorded interview, this time of what, surprisingly, appeared to be a priest.

"_While I don't speak for the church, I do speak for myself as a lifelong scholar of the Bible_," began the man, his heavily accented English undubbed. "_The idea that God created another human civilization beyond the confines of Earth goes against every teaching I have ever known, it's little short of heresy. I submit that they are either not being truthful about their origins, or that they are more likely not even human beings at all_."

Shifting again, the report continued with a rather unkempt man with long, greasy hair and worm denim clothing.

"_This is all just a farce, nothing more than mediocre propaganda being foisted upon us by the same industrialist conspiracy that made up the Chigs in the first place_," he began, likewise undubbed, his wild and greasy hair shifting about his shoulders as he made exaggerated movements with his arms. "_None of this war is real, it's all just a badly choreographed fairytale being forced upon us by the international military industrial complex so they can keep making money at the expense of the poor_."

Nathan West all but fumed at the unkempt man on the TV; the idea that the Chigs weren't _real_, that the war was nothing but a _lie_ made him furious.

The explosions and bullets that had killed his brother Neil had been real enough. The Chig fighters that had blasted Wang, Damphousse and Vansen from the sky had certainly been rear as well.

Disgusted, Nathan grabbed up the remote and turned off the TV.

Tossing the remote back down onto the coffee table with a clatter, Nathan got up off the couch and wandered over to the window, looking out over the twinkling lights of nearby houses.

"What's wrong, Nathan?" asked his mother as she stepped into the living room.

"Just some brainless _idiot_ on TV," scoffed Nathan angrily as his gaze slowly moved towards the stars in the night sky. "Says the Chigs aren't real, that the war is just a lie."

"Well, like you said, he's just an idiot," muttered Anne West simply as she turned back and returned to the kitchen.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Nathan fought hard to forget the ignorant man he'd seen on the news report as he turned away from the window and stepped towards the kitchen.

Watching his mother as she continued to prepare dinner, Nathan slowly made his way over to the table and then settled into a chair, gently setting down the phone he still held as he looked over at his mother.

"Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, dear, what is it?"

"What do _you_ think about the Colonials?"

"You mean those people who are asking to settle on Earth?"

"Yeah."

Pausing, Anne looked over at her son.

"Why do you ask?"

"The news report," he shrugged. "There are protesters outside the UN right now, it looks like there are a lot of people who don't want the Colonials to settle on Earth."

Shrugging slightly, Anne returned her attention to the myriad of pots and pans on the stove.

"I guess I haven't really paid much attention to it," she said evenly. "I mean, we really don't know enough about them, right?"

"Why does it matter, I mean they're _human_, Mom, not like the Chigs," countered Nathan evenly. "And they have weapons and technology the Chigs can't counter, things that might help end this damned war. Don't you think that's the important thing?"

Dropping a spoon down somewhat heavily on the stove-top, Anne looked back over at Nathan.

"I've already lost one son to this _godforsaken_ war, of course I want it to end before it claims another," she fumed, eyes locked on Nathan.

Then, dropping her gaze away from Nathan, Anne cupped her hand over her mouth for a moment, gently shaking her head.

"My god, Nathan, did you know that some countries in the Global Commonwealth have dropped their enlistment ages to _sixteen_?" asked Anne, her tone a whispered shadow. "I wake up sometimes dreading this war going on and your brother Johnny being drafted into uniform before he even has a driver's license."

Her sorrowful expression softening a bit, Anne turned back to the stove as she sheepishly picked back up the spoon.

"I'm sorry, honey..." she muttered, shaking her head. "I mean, you're out there, what do _you_ think about them?"

"I think we should let them settle here," replied Nathan flatly as he glanced back over at the phone lying on the table. "This war ends, maybe things can start getting back to normal in the world."

"Millions of people have died, Nathan," began Anne bitterly, shaking her head still more as she stirred one of the pots. "Families have been shattered; things are never going to be normal again."

"No, I guess they won't," conceded Nathan as he let out a long sigh. "Still..."

Setting the spoon down, this time more softly, Anne turned and looked over at her son.

"Why do _you_ think they should be allowed to settle on Earth, Nathan?" asked Anne pointedly. "I mean, to be honest I'd think you'd be opposed to the idea."

"Why?" he muttered, his expression somewhat perplexed as he looked back over at Anne.

"Well, you've been out there over two years, now," began Anne evenly. "You were there when Neil was killed, and I know you've lost some very dear friends fighting one alien race, I'd think you'd be a little more guarded about letting another group of aliens make their home here so easily."

"But that's just it, Mom, they're _not_ aliens," countered Nathan, shaking his head slightly. "They're people, just like you and me."

"How can you be so sure? I mean, the idea of humans from some other planet? That doesn't strike you as odd somehow?"

West couldn't help but chuckle a bit.

"Mom, have you forgotten _I_ was supposed to be a colonist on Tellus?" he asked simply. "If this war hadn't happened, if I had been able to go…"

For a moment, West's gaze drifted back to the phone, his thoughts to Kylen…

"…there would have been people out there, me, Kylen, living our lives on another world. Falling in love, having families; would being born on Tellus or Vesta have made those children any less human than if they'd been born on Earth?"

"No, of course not."

For a moment, quiet tension settled in over the West kitchen.

"There's something more you're not telling me," interjected Anne after a few tense seconds. "What is it you're not telling me?"

Looking back over at his mother, Nathan hesitated.

"It's..." he stammered. "It's classified, mom."

"Don't give me that Marine Corps bullshit," snapped Anne as she took a few tentative steps towards Nathan. "You brought it up, don't hide behind that code-of-secrecy crap with me, young man."

As much amused by hearing his mother curse as he was at the notion that she still might very well try to bend him over her knee and swat him with the wooden spoon in her hand, Nathan grinned.

"The Colonials, Mom," he began simply. "God I can't even believe I'm telling you this, I could get into so much trouble…_they_ were the ones who rescued me and the Marines with me from that moon."

Caught off guard by the admission, Anne was stunned for a moment.

"Their troops wiped out the Chigs that were assaulting out position, their planes picked us up, and it was their ships that saved the _Saratoga_'s fleet. If not for them, we wouldn't have made it back."

Speechless, Anne stood there for a moment, looking at her son.

Then, without a word, she simply set the spoon down and walked over to him.

Kneeling down, she scooped Nathan up in a hug as tears began to well up in her eyes.

"Then that does change everything," she muttered through choked tears. "God bless them, Nathan, for bringing you home to me."

Returning his mother's hug, Nathan smiled.

Then, pulling back, Anne cupped his face in her hands as she looked him in the eye.

"For bringing you out alive, dammit, they deserve _anything_ they want, give them the whole damned _planet_ to live on if they want, for bringing my baby home safe."

* * *

><p><strong>Outside the United Nations Governing Assembly Building<br>****Strasbourg, France**

Standing in the chilled morning air, the twilight stars twinkling overhead like a million jewels, a crowd of several hundred men, women, even some children, riled angrily against the fences that had been thrown up to keep them at bay. Carrying signs, chanting slogans of hostility, or even in some cases, near insanity, the protesters continue to deliver their messages with ear-splitting urgency.

"Earth for us alone!" some cried in their native French.

"Hell no, the Colonials must go," chanted another small cluster from Cardiff, having travelled over from across the channel from the UK just to be a part of the crowd.

Old, young, white, black, Catholic, Muslim, their demographics had no homogeny; the only obvious commonality these people had with one another was their objection to the idea of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies settling on Earth.

And at the center of the crowd, a man and a woman made their way passively amid the throng. The man, dressed in a finely cut pinstripe suit, carried himself with a sense of haughty detachment. The woman, dressed in a regal red dress perhaps a bit too sheer for the chilled air walked with the aura of a supermodel making her way along the catwalk at a fashion gala.

"You'd think their world was coming to an end," muttered the man evenly, his accented voice almost amused.

"Well in a very real way, don't you think it has?" purred the woman as she looked around at the angrily chanting crowd. "When the truth becomes fully known to them…"

"_If_ it becomes fully known to them," corrected the man flatly as he glanced back over at her. "Their obstinate nature might still lead them to turn the Colonials away before the whole story is revealed."

"You know as well as I do that these people represent only a _fringe_ opinion," replied the woman, her blonde curls bouncing slightly as she looked about at the shouting people.

"Ah, ah," countered the man, waggling his finger a bit as he looked about, an almost indifferent expression on his face. "Be clear my dear, these people are the most vocal of the fringe opinion. There are still plenty more out there who are either silent, or simply didn't have enough gas in the car to drive here and congregate with the rest of this rabble."

"Still, vocal as they are, there's still a chance for humanity to accept the offer from the Colonials," said the woman, her voice purring a bit through her wide grin. "If for no other reason, their innate selfishness will likely compel them to choose survival over extinction."

"For their sake, I hope you are right," replied the man, his smirk fading a bit. "Some of the players may have changed, but this circle of events is once more approaching its crescendo."

Then, turning to his stunning companion, the man's playful smirk returned as he held out a gentlemanly hand to her.

"And seeing how the orchestra has now convened, my dear, if you'll allow me, might I have this dance?"

Her luscious red lips spreading in a wide grin, the woman gently took hold of his hand, her body conforming to his as they began a slow turn, quite literally dancing unnoticed amid the crowd.

* * *

><p><strong>United Nations Governing Assembly Building<br>****Strasbourg, France**

With the General Assembly adjourned for the moment, Commander Sean Kelso quickly made his way through the surging crowd of aides and dignitaries flowing out into the main reception hall. Making his way past the guards, the Commander stepped through the foyer doors out into the main courtyard, letting out nothing less than an utterly relieved sigh.

But, even as he took his first deep breath of the crisp night air, his ears were bombarded with the sound of roiling chants and shouting, and it didn't take him long to locate the source.

At a glance, it might have seemed as though the UN General Assembly building were under siege. Out past the sprawling entrance walk, a roiling mass of humanity held signs and shouted loudly as they pressed up against the thin line of guards and hastily erected fences just a couple hundred meters away.

Realizing he was little better than trapped between two crowds, Commander Sean Kelso let out a long sigh.

His first time setting foot on a planet in nearly three years, and not even one of the Twelve Colonies, but the fabled Earth of the scriptures, and all he could think about was getting the hell back to the _Galactica_ as quickly as possible.

"They don't sound very happy, do they?" muttered President Paul Bess as he stepped up beside Kelso. "Last time I saw something like that it was a protest outside the Ministry of Defense after President Adar sent the Marines into Aerilon."

"This is why I hate politics," replied Kelso evenly, shaking his head slightly as he looked out at the shouting crowd. "No matter what you do, you still manage to piss somebody off."

"Not just politics, _life_," countered Bess with a slight chuckle. "I certainly hope you're not taking the attitude of that crowd of crazies over there as indicative of the planet as a whole."

"Hard not to," sighed Kelso as he glanced back over his shoulder at the dignitaries milling about inside the reception hall behind him. "A touch more civil perhaps, but the attitudes of a lot of the delegates in there didn't leave me with much to be optimistic about."

"Now that _is_ politics," chuckled Bess. "Even if they were utterly elated at our proposal, they still need to be able to go back to their governments and constituents and be able to say they wrestled something from us we weren't willing to give."

"That's why I prefer working with the _quantifiable_," grinned Kelso as he stared out at the crowd. "Mathematics, engineering, physics; a certain size nut for a particular size bolt, one-plus-one always equals two…"

His voice trailing off, the Commander began simply shaking his head.

"We've already been through so much," continued Kelso after a moment as he continued to eye the angry crowd. "What point is there in pushing for settlement on a planet where _that_ is our reception committee?"

Looking over at the crowd himself, Paul Bess slowly nodded his head for a moment, as if appraising them.

"Frak 'em," he finally said simply.

"Mr. President?" muttered Kelso, looking over at Bess somewhat dubiously.

"Look at it this way, Commander," began Bess as he continued to eye the crowd. "Here we are trying to convince these people we are human beings just like them, the simple fact is that we can't do that unless we ourselves accept that they are too, with all the same basic faults. No matter what, doesn't matter the issue, there are always a group of nut-jobs who will do nothing but protest and dissent for no other reason than to buck the system."

"I'm just glad they atleast let our own Marines stand guard over the Raptor," sighed Kelso as his eyes continued to scan across the crowd. "Hate to think about one of those nut-jobs slapping a bomb onto our plane just to prove some point."

It was then that Kelso and Bess noticed a small caravan of vehicles approaching. With some significant effort, bordering on phenomenal, the guards holding the crowd back actually managed to get them to part enough to allow the vehicles to pass.

Silent, Commander Kelso and President Bess watched as the vehicles made their through the crowd and then up along the drive towards the building.

The vehicles had barely slowed to a stop when the doors opened, disgorging their occupants out onto the curb at the end of the walkway leading to the UN General Assembly building.

If he was to take their attire as any indication, the people getting out of the vehicles were more aides and dignitaries destined to join the milling group inside the main hall.

But one face stood out amongst them.

Dressed in an immaculately pressed uniform, Commodore Glen van Ross began making his way towards the doors, his expression clearly none-too-pleased.

While it was clear from his pace that he was intent on getting to wherever it was he was heading, when Commodore Ross caught sight of Commander Kelso and President Bess, he slowed to a stop, catching the small entourage that was accompanying him slightly off guard as they stutter-stepped to a pause behind him.

For a moment, Commodore Ross simply stood staring across the crowd towards Commander Kelso and President Bess, his expression generally unreadable.

Then, with crisp pomp and flair, Commodore Ross almost made a show of snapping to attention and slowly rendering a decidedly respectful salute.

Himself coming to attention, Commander Kelso returned the salute, a slight smirk on his face that Ross subtly mirrored as well.

Then, dropping his salute, Ross gave them a slight nod as he glanced over his shoulder at the hovering entourage behind him, let out a slight snort, and began once more making his way towards a side entrance, his apparent intent being to bypass the large crowd milling about inside the entry hall.

As Ross and his entourage disappeared through the side entry, Commander Kelso glanced over at President Bess.

"He certainly didn't look happy to be here," muttered Bess.

"No he didn't," agreed Kelso evenly as he glanced over at the milling dignitaries inside the hall. "Nor do I blame him."

* * *

><p><strong>United Nations Governing Assembly Building<br>****Security Council Assembly**

As he sat behind the small table looking out at the dour collection of faces around the far larger semi-circular table, Commodore Glen van Ross was far from a happy man.

Almost as soon as he'd arrived back in Baywood, Lousiana, returning home to the wife and kids he'd been separate from for nearly two years, his damned hard-earned leave had been interrupted.

It was enough for him to _seriously_ consider resigning his commission.

There he'd been, bare feet kicked up on his own porch, his belly full of his wife's crawfish étouffée, a cold beer in one hand and Rosyln in the other when the phone had rung.

In retrospect, he should have known better and _unplugged_ the damned thing…

And on the other end of that line had been a decidedly monotone voice delivering an equally unpleasant message; his presence was requested, with the Joint Chiefs making it quite clear he had no alternative, before the UN Security Council.

So it was that Commodore Glen van Ross now sat staring around at the assembled UN Security Council, stewing with a barely restrained sense of indignation usually reserved for the Chigs.

"You must understand, Commodore, the gravity of the situation which you have placed us in," began French Ambassador Nicholas Chaput, Under Secretary of the Earth Commonwealth and current President of the Security Council. "Without orders, without consultation, you unilaterally entered into what amounts to a _de facto_ alliance with these people; how are we supposed to honor that alliance when there are so many questions yet unanswered?"

"Mr. Ambassador, with all due respect," began Ross evenly as he stared back across at Ambassador Chaput. "I did what I felt needed to be done to bring my fighting men and women home. Two years we've been out on the line, six months of which was spent cut-off from any resupply and reinforcement behind enemy lines."

"The sacrifices and bravery of the people under your command are not at question here, Commodore," interjected Roxanne Aguirre, Ambassador for the United States. "What you and your people endured was harrowing to say the least."

"That would be an _understatement_, Madame Ambassador," replied Ross coolly.

"In any event, Commodore Ross, we are now left with no choice but to consider the full weight and consequences of your contact with these Colonials," continued Ambassador Chaput. "Now we have the immense task of determining whether they are truly a friend, or a new foe."

"Why _did_ you initiate contact, Commodore?" asked Ambassador Jiang Yaobang, Ambassador from the People's Republic of China.

Looking back over at Ambassador Yaobang, Ross smirked a bit.

"_I_ wasn't the one who initiated contact," replied Ross evenly as he met Yaobang's eyes. "Commander Kelso and his people were the ones who made the decision to come to _our_ assistance, and to be perfectly clear, had they not, neither I nor any of my people would even be here."

"Yes, your report clearly indicates that your fleet was heavily engaged near the Banū Mūsā wormhole," began the Iranian Ambassador, Bahman Zamaani Fard, as he flipped through several pages laid out before him on the table. "Outnumbered nearly two-to-one and suffering heavy losses…"

"Again, a _gross_ understatement," replied Commodore Ross evenly as he reached up and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "That Chig blockade had us hemmed in, and with our fuel reserves exhausted we had no options left but to try for the opening of that wormhole. And if not for the Colonials deciding to intervene on our behalf, we would have been wiped out."

"Yes, that is quite clear from your report," continued Ambassador Zamaani Fard. "Short of supplies and fuel, militarily speaking, you had no choice but to fight; that is a decision your military accepts and is not at issue."

"Then may I ask what is?" asked Ross crisply. "You acknowledge that my fleet was very much in danger of total annihilation, tens of thousands of lives _at risk_, and yet, the distinct impression I get from this council is that such a fate would have been preferable than having to face the possibility that the Colonials are _exactly_ who they profess to be; humans just like us, moreover, possible allies in this war."

"_Not_ like us, Commodore," retorted Ambassador Zamaani Fard as he looked coolly back over at Ross. "Everything about them is a mystery wrapped in an enigma; this entire notion of some ancient human civilization on another world, this Kobol they speak of, that somehow our own ancestors do not originate on Earth but came from that world, it flies in the face of literally centuries of scientific evidence, several millennia of oral and written history…"

"I don't pretend to have any insight regarding their assertions about the origins of the human race," countered Ross flatly. "Perhaps their history is wrong; by their own admission what they know of their own ancient history is largely unsubstantiated dogma, full of legends and myths, not unlike our own ancient history. The book of Genesis would have us believe that all of humanity started with a lone man and woman in a garden paradise. But science tells us we are the end results of tens of millennia of slow evolution. History is _always_ being rewritten, Ambassador."

"Commodore Ross, your own reports indicate that you yourself were initially wary that this was some sort of elaborate deception on the part of the enemy," began the Ambassador from India, Shaheen Bhatnagar as she leaned in over the desk towards Ross. "As a military man, a pragmatic mind accustomed to evaluating the facts in a given situation, can you say that you no longer believe this to be a possibility?"

"I can, Madame Ambassador," replied Ross evenly.

"May I ask why?"

"Because, pragmatically, it simply doesn't make any _sense_ any way you look at it," answered Ross, shaking his head slightly. "What would the enemy gain by engaging in a deception like this right now? Militarily, they had our forces against the ropes, ready to deliver a knock-out blow against the Earth itself. There is simply no need."

"And what if they turn out to be some other alien race that wants to destroy humanity?" interjected Ambassador Egorova flatly as she looked over at him from behind her thin-rimmed glasses. "The Chigs are out there, the odds that there are other alien species have gone from theoretical to damned-near likely."

"To suggest our lone planet is so important in the grand scheme of the universe that there would be not one but _two_ alien species intent on destroying the human race takes an awful lot of hubris, Madam Ambassador," replied Commodore Ross evenly. "Besides, if that were the case, wouldn't it make sense for them to ally with the Chigs rather than us?"

"Perhaps they are playing both sides," countered Ambassador Egorova. "Provoking us against one another in order to eventually conquer both us _and_ the Chigs."

Taking a deep breath, Ross quickly looked around at the assembled delegates seated at the table.

"I'm not sure who the Colonials really are," began Ross evenly. "They could be exactly who they claim to be, human beings from worlds other than Earth. Or it could be mistake, perhaps even misinformation, either deliberate on their part or not. But as Ambassador Bhatnagar pointed out, I am not a philosopher or a sociologist; I am a military man. Sometimes in the absence of cold, hard facts, even the most pragmatic mind has to go with what their gut tells you."

"And as a military man, Commodore, what does your 'gut' say?" asked Ambassador Yaobang evenly.

"It tells me that this is a two way street, Mister Ambassador," replied Ross. "As we sit here and debate, we seem to forget that if what they've told us is true, they too took a _risk_, and it was one that hasn't come without cost to them. They took a risk in rescuing my Marines from the surface of that moon. They took a risk in engaging the Chig blockade in order to save my fleet. They most certainly took a risk when they penetrated enemy space and rescued our besieged forces from Ixion. And, they took yet another risk in breaking the back of the Chig offensive against the Earth itself. They took those risks not knowing any more about us then we do about them. Can you understand they have every right to be just as suspicious about our intentions are we are of theirs?"

For a moment, Ambassador Yaobang hesitated.

"Commodore, let me be clear so there is no misunderstanding," began Ambassador Yaobang, his tone losing its hard edge for a moment. "My son was among the troops rescued from Ixion, so I have every reason to _thank_ the Colonials for their actions. _But_, I also have a duty as part of this council to make my recommendations based solely on the facts. Simply put, we cannot afford to be wrong about this issue, there's simply too much at stake."

"I am well aware of what is at stake, Mister Ambassador," countered Ross evenly. "Two years on the front has made me all too familiar with the ferocity and carnage our enemy is capable of."

With that, an uncomfortable silence fell over the assembly, a pause that was only broken when a door at the far end of the hall opened. Drawing the attention of everyone in the room, the door parted to allow a woman dressed in a simple yet stylish business suit to quickly make her way down to the President of the Security Council.

Leaning in close to him, she whispered in Ambassador Chaput's ear as she handed him a folder quite plainly labeled 'ultra compartmentalized' in at least a dozen languages.

Taking the proffered folder, Ambassador Chaput simply nodded and waved the woman away, for her part taking the cue and quickly retreating back towards the door she'd entered through.

As everyone waited silently around the large semi-circle table, Ambassador Chaput broke the seal on the folder and quickly scanned over the pages it contained.

After a few tense moments, Chaput took a deep, steadying breath, set the folder down on the table, then looked back over at Ross.

"Thank you, Commodore Ross for your frank testimony before this council," stated Ambassador Chaput evenly. "You are excused."

Somewhat surprised by the abrupt dismissal, Commodore Ross took a deep breath, stood, and began making his way back towards the door.

Feeling somewhat irritated that he had been pulled from his leave, flown all the way to France, only to be grilled and then just as quickly given the brush-off, however tactful, Ross fought hard to hold his tongue as he stepped out of the Security Council chambers into the reception hall.

His eyes locked straight ahead, Ross began to quickly make his way past the throngs of delegates and aides milling about, intent on getting back to Baywood, Louisiana as quickly as possible.

"How'd it go in there, Glen?"

At the sound of General Oliver Ranford's gravelly voice, Commodore Ross stopped mid-step as he turned to see his old friend cutting a path past a couple of chatting dignitaries.

"Probably best I not talk about it," sighed Ross as he glance back over at the doors to the Security Council chamber. "Otherwise I _might_ be tempted to say something that could get me busted back to Ensign."

Chuckling a bit, Ranford reached over and, rather uncharacteristically, placed an arm around Ross' shoulder.

"This way," said General Ranford, his voice just barely above a whisper as he began guiding Ross through the crowd.

Wearing a genial smile, Ranford quickly ushered Ross around the small clusters of aides and dignitaries, pausing occasionally just long enough to give a diplomatic nod or two, but nevertheless quite clearly intent on navigating through the crowd as quickly as possible.

After several moments, Ross' patience, even for an old friend, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs or not, began to wear thin.

But before Ross could ask exactly where it was that Ranford was leading him, it became curiously plain that the General was leading him towards, of all things, the restroom.

As they approached, General Ranford waved over two Marines waiting nearby.

"Sergeant, Corporal," sighed Ranford as he glanced back over his shoulder at the milling dignitaries. "I don't care if Jesus himself shows up needing to take a leak; no one comes in this door till we come out, is that understood?"

"Aye, sir," replied the two Marines simply as they posted themselves on either side of the door.

Then, with little less than a shove, General Ranford guided Ross inside.

As Ross stood there for a moment, perplexed, General Ranford quickly went along the row of stalls, pushing at the open doors, apparently trying to see whether there was anyone else in the restroom.

When he'd checked the last stall, Ranford turned back towards a now slightly amused Commodore Ross.

"I certainly hope you're not hoping for some romantic interlude," smirked Ross as he looked over at his old friend. "Frankly, Olie, you're not my type."

"And you're too damned ugly," grinned Ranford. "No, this is official business."

"Official business; in _here_?"

"Not even the Chigs would think to bug the head, Glen," replied Ranford simply. "Frankly, this is about as secure a place to talk as any on planet."

"Talk about what, exactly?"

"Those Chig prisoners picked up by the _Lexington_, the ones who surrendered, what did they tell you?"

His smirk fading a bit, Ross looked into Ranford's decidedly serious expression.

"When our interrogation team spoke with them, the prisoners reiterated what they told Cassel's people, that there'd been some sort of coup against the Chig military leaders by the AI's. Unfortunately we weren't in a position to try and confirm that information before returning to Earth."

Taking a deep breath, Ranford looked over at Ross.

"It's true," said Ranford simply. "Ever since your report hit the desk at the Pentagon, every Intelligence asset around the globe has been working overtime to try and confirm it. And as of last night, we have just such confirmation."

"Are you telling me that the Silicates have _actually_ managed to overthrow the Chig leadership?"

"It's their style isn't it?" replied Ranford evenly as he began milling about, his dress shoes echoing a bit on the tile floor. "Simply biding their time, chomping at the bit for a chance to hit back at us since the end of the AI War. Hell, they've been helping the Chigs ever since this war started."

"But that was sabotage, handling of human POW's, not active combat," countered Ross. "They weren't really more than bit-players. What changed?"

"I guess they just decided it was time to take another chance," sighed Ranford as his head sunk a bit.

"So what can you tell me?"

"Apparently, the Chigs were spooked when they caught wind that Operation Roundhammer was about to break down their front door," began Ranford as he paused at the row of sinks and leaned back against the counter-top. "_Really_ spooked, spooked enough that they tried to broker that cease fire right before the invasion."

"But if the peace envoy that came aboard the _Saratoga_ was legitimate, why did their Ambassador carry out a suicide bombing aboard my ship?" fumed Ross, remembering the carnage that had been unleashed when the Chig envoy had detonated a bomb aboard the _Saratoga_, killing nearly everyone at the conference.

"Act of desperation, maybe," shrugged Ranford. "In any event, when it became clear that we were still willing and capable of invading their homeworld, the Chigs sent an encrypted message offering a near unconditional surrender so long as no human set foot on their homeworlds."

"But how did the AI's manage to stage a coup?" asked Ross evenly. "Even a weakened Chig military should have been able to prevent that."

"Best guess is that the Silicates may have been planning an overthrow ever since they first allied themselves with the Chigs," replied Ranford as he absently passed his hand underneath a faucet head, the sensor activating the water flow. "When they deemed the moment to be right, they deployed several hundred canisters of biological agents onto Anvil."

"The moon the Chigs use as a nursery?"

"The same," nodded Ranford. "They are literally holding the future of the entire Chig race hostage. If the Chigs don't do as the Silicates instruct them, they'll unleash a wave of chemical and biological agents that will render Anvil a wasteland."

"Would certainly explain why the Chigs have been throwing their forces at us with such abandon," muttered Ross, the Commodore taking a deep breath as he mulled over his thoughts. "Damned Silicates have them by the balls and they know it. Any chance the AI's are planning on unleashing similar agents here on Earth?"

"You've just asked the question that has haunted my nightmares ever since you got back," sighed Ranford. "This isn't about just sending the Chigs after us in wave after wave of suicidal attacks, Glen; the AI's have something bigger in mind."

"Such as?"

"We don't know, not exactly at least," replied Ranford flatly. "While the Chigs have been pushing us back towards Earth, they've also been diverting vast resources to an area far outside known space, some kind of research facility. What it is exactly they are researching is as much a mystery as where they are conducting it."

"But whatever it is can't be good news for us," finished Ross as he slowly nodded his head in understanding. "I presume IFOR is preparing some sort of contingency plan or strike mission?"

Pausing, Ranford looked over at Ross.

"To be honest with you, Glen, our forces are nowhere near ready to embark on something like that," stated General Ranford evenly. "What veteran forces we _do_ have are needed here in case the Chigs make another run at Earth."

Taking a deep breath, Ross eyed General Ranford wearily.

"Why do I get the feeling the other shoe is about to drop?"

"Because you might just be smarter than you look, old friend," grinned Ranford. "The General Assembly and Security Council could take months to debate this issue of Colonial settlement, but we may not have that kind of time."

"What does this have to do with the Colonials?"

This time it was General Ranford who took a deep breath.

"With the tacit blessing of the President, the Joint Chiefs have been very quietly talking to a few of our closest allies," continued Ranford. "They all agree we may have to bypass the UN for the time being and go directly to the Colonial military leadership with a proposal."

"A covert operation?"

Ranford nodded.

"And how does this pertain to me?" asked Ross, the answer popping into his head almost as soon as the words left his mouth. "You want me to act as a liaison, don't you?"

"Your report makes it clear that you've managed to establish a rapport with Commander Kelso," said Ranford as he continued to run his fingers under the faucet. "Do you think you'd be able to quietly discuss this with him on our behalf?"

"And how does this 'discussion' line up with the oaths we took as officers to always submit to the proper civilian authorities?" asked Ross evenly. "I mean, entering into a military alliance with a foreign power without the consent of the civil government; what you are suggesting might be considered tantamount to treason, Olie."

"All the more reason for us not to fail, Glen," replied Ranford, his tone all-too serious. "At least if we hang, we'll be able to do so with a clear conscience that we did this for the right reasons."

"And what assurance do I have that if the General Assembly finds out about this little black-bag operation I won't be left twirling in the wind alone?" asked Ross flatly.

"None," replied Ranford simply. "Otherwise it wouldn't be a black-bag operation, would it?"

Stunned, Ross turned away from his old friend and looked at himself in the mirror.

What Ranford was suggesting might be considered by some to be little more than sedition against the Global Commonwealth government. There were still plenty of people, a lot of people in fact, who viewed the Colonials with as much mistrust and disdain, however flimsy the justification, as the Chigs.

Still…

If the Silicates _were_ planning to hit Earth with a biological attack, billions of lives could be lost.

If Earth wasn't in a position to defend itself, pragmatically, what else was left besides asking the Colonials for help?

Taking a deep breath, Ross gently thumped his fist against the sink counter.

"So what do we do first?" asked Ross evenly as he looked back over at Ranford.

Grinning slightly, Ranford motioned Ross back towards the door.

"First thing we do is go back out there and have a drink," he said simply.

"Fine by me," replied Ross evenly. "Might help at my court martial if I was able to say I was drunk when I agreed to be a part of this mutiny."

"Just be sure you save one drink for a toast," chuckled General Ranford evenly as they stepped back out into the main reception hall. "I have one more piece of news for you."

"Oh, I can't wait," replied Ross sardonically.

* * *

><p>"You may begin with your briefing, Doctor Langstrom," said Ambassador Chaput as he leaned back into his plush chair.<p>

"Thank you," replied Langstrom as she settled in behind the small podium before the assembled delegates of the Security Council.

As the lights overhead dimmed, a large projection screen flashed to life.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Security Council, as you know, a little over a week ago this body commissioned a comprehensive genetic survey," began Langstrom as she cued the first slide onto the screen. "That survey, consisting of various blood, hair and tissue samples taken from individuals in the Colonial fleet were dispatched to laboratories around the world and we are prepared to present our findings at this time."

"And what are the findings, Doctor Langstrom?" asked Ambassador Chaput evenly.

Cuing up another slide, Langstrom stepped out from behind the podium and began making her way closer to the screen.

"In short, whatever their origin, on a strictly genetic level, the Colonials are exactly who they profess to be; Homo sapiens," replied Langstrom as a series of overlapping graphics displaying a DNA strand flashed to life on the screen. "Human beings just like everyone in this room."

"Is there any room for doubt or error, Doctor Langstrom?" asked Ambassador Yaobang evenly. "Is it possible that the data has been corrupted somehow?"

"To be clear, Mister Ambassador, the samples were dispersed to and tested by literally dozens of labs around the world specifically to mitigate the possibility of error," replied Langstrom evenly as she continued to cycle through the slides. "Moreover, steps were taken to prevent any possibility of manipulation of the results by instituting a random sampling method when the specimens were initially collected."

"How, exactly?" asked Ambassador Nyeko of the Kingdom of Swaziland as he watched the slides intently.

"First and foremost, samples were collected from every ship in the Colonial fleet, military and civilian," continued Doctor Langstrom as she brought up a demographics slide showing the sampling method. "Furthermore, the samples were collected randomly amongst the populations; again, military and civilian, young, old, male, female, every possible demographic variation."

"That is hardly as conclusive as you would seem to believe, Doctor," began Ambassador Zaamani Fard evenly. "The InVitros are a clear example that cloning and genetic replication could have been used to 'create' the Colonials."

"While I will grant that is at least a fringe possibility, Mister Ambassador, the consensus opinion of the scientific community involved in this study is that it is highly improbable," countered Langstrom evenly. "Both our survey as well as the demographic information turned over by the Colonials indicate this is far from a homogenous population. Differing ethnic groups, widely divergent ages, if this is somehow an 'engineered' population, it would have taken an exhaustive effort spanning more than eight decades to complete."

"So in short, if this is a hoax or a deception, it likely has consequences far greater ranging than the current war against the Chigs," interjected Ambassador Chaput evenly.

"To be clear, Ambassador Chaput, the data simply does not support the conclusion that this is in any way a hoax or a deception," countered Langstrom. "If anything, all the evidence supports what the Colonials claim to be; humans from another world. In fact, there was one very significant and surprising discovery that goes a long way towards legitimizing the Colonial claim."

"And that is?" asked Zaamani Fard flatly.

"Mitochondrial DNA, Mister Ambassador," replied Langstrom as she selected yet another slide. "You, me, the Secretary General, everyone indigenous to the planet Earth has a permutation in their cellular mitochondria, not identical, but clearly traceable along the matrilineal line of every person on Earth to a single common ancestral mitochondrial DNA strand."

"You speak of Mitochondrial Eve hypothesis," interjected Israeli Ambassador Gabai.

"Correct," said Langstrom. "All the genetic evidence collected over the last century points to the inescapable conclusion that every human being alive on planet Earth can trace at least a part of their genetic pedigree back to one single female."

"How does this pertain to the Colonials?" asked Zaamani Fard.

"That's the extraordinary part," continued Langstrom, excitement creeping into her voice. "If the Colonials were somehow engineered, presumably the source DNA would have come from Earth. Even InVitro's, in spite of being engineered, share this same genetic mark with natural borns. But, amongst all of the samples collected amongst the Colonial fleet, not a single one has the same mitochondrial DNA, not with each other outside of close family, and not with anyone else alive on Earth."

"But wouldn't that support the idea that they are _not_ who they claim to be?" asked Ambassador Yaobang.

"No, Mister Ambassador, it would not," replied Langstrom flatly. "Considering the vast diversity of their population on a genetic level, engineering differing mitochondrial DNA would be superfluous, unnecessary. Quite simply, it serves no purpose to falsify mitochondrial DNA. Think of it like running a marathon backwards, with a fifty pound weight in each hand; why would you even try?"

"And what would happen if these new strands of mitochondrial DNA were introduced into our populations, Doctor Langstrom?" asked Ambassador Zaamani Fard. "Could this perhaps be some form of biological warfare?"

Pausing, Langstrom looked over at the Iranian Ambassador, her left eyebrow raising ever so slightly in curiosity.

"The _only_ way that the various Colonial mitochondrial DNA sequences could be introduced into our genetic makeup would be if our populations began to intermarry and have children, Mister Ambassador," said Langstrom, smirking slightly.

"Then it _is_ a possibility that this is some sort of plan to alter our own genome in some way?" asked Ambassador Zaamani Fard pointedly.

"I would be decidedly against implying there is some sort of coherent plan to dilute or otherwise alter our genome in this," replied Langstrom, titling her head slightly as she pondered it momentarily. "I will concede that in the space of perhaps fifty to one-hundred thousand years of intermarriage and breeding these various mitochondrial DNA strands will have worked their way into the human populace in general…"

"All the more reason to keep them isolated then," stated Zaamani Fard, thumping his fist slightly against the table top. "Their genetics alone might pose a threat to our societies…"

"Except that…" interjected Langstrom evenly, her tone holding the slightest hint of a chuckle to it. "From a purely _evolutionary_ position, genetic diversity is beneficial, not a hindrance to the survival of the human race. In fact, for several millennia prior to the hypothetical 'Eve', there were other permutations of mitochondrial DNA in human genome. Besides, mitochondria can hardly be considered the microscopic ticking time-bombs you would seem to imply they are, there would truly be negligible to non-existent consequences in such an integration."

Almost instantly frustrated, Zaamani Fard sank back into his seat.

"Does any of the evidence you've seen support their claim that their society and ours share a common origin, off world or not?" asked the Mexican Ambassador, Adelita Martinez.

"Inconclusive," replied Langstrom, shaking her head slightly. "If there is a common ancestry, though, it is far in excess of the few thousand years they would seem to believe."

"For the sake of argument, Doctor Langstrom, any idea just how far off it may be?" asked Japanese Ambassador Yamada.

"If I were to make a guess, Mister Ambassador, it would be just that, a guess," began Langstrom, pausing as she pondered the question in her mind. "But, genetically speaking, the evidence would seem to indicate that our two societies went their separate ways at least one-hundred and fifty-thousand years ago."


	10. The Stuff of Dreams and Nightmares

**Marine Park, Venice, California  
><strong>**United States of America**

Taking a deep breath, Nathan West detected the barest hint of sea salt being carried on the morning wind blowing in from the nearby coast.

Around the park, there were only a few children at play, the vast majority of kids having returned to school now that the Chig threat had abated. The few who were there were little more than toddlers, scampering about under the watchful eyes of their mothers. Nevertheless, as he watched the kids climb stairs and slide down slides, he couldn't help but remember those times now a lifetime ago when he and his brother Neil had raced about this very playground.

Neil…

Nathan hadn't really had time to mourn the loss of his brother, to reconcile himself with the tragically senseless manner by which he'd died, killed by the self-serving bravado of a commander who'd had no business being in command of troops in battle. Instead, the war had trudged on, and he along with it, with no time to adequately grieve as he went from one combat action to another. But ever since he'd come home, these last days spent little more than numbly milling about the house where they'd grown up, played, bickered with each other, Nathan now had nothing but time to remember, and feel the impact and emptiness over the loss.

"Neil, honey, don't wander off," called the melodic voice of one mother after her child.

Prompted by the sound of the name, Nathan looked over in time to see the toddler, doubtless no older than two, miss a step and tumble a bit down onto the synthetic foam around the base of the play area.

Hesitating for a moment, the child nevertheless began to cry, the boy's mother racing over to scoop him up and comfort him.

"Shhh, there now, honey, everything will be okay," she said soothingly as she cradled the weeping child lovingly in her arms.

Everything will be okay.

How hollow those words sounded to Nathan in spite of the love that filled them.

The stark reality was that she had no way to know that. The world was a dangerous, unforgiving place, delivering harsh, sometimes punishing doses of reality.

Never mind the dangers and horrors that lay beyond the confines of the atmosphere above.

Still, as he watched the woman sooth her son, Nathan longed for those simpler times when such words had seemed to be true, however lovingly naïve. He longed to feel that sense of certainty again.

"Nathan?"

The sound of her voice cut through the air like a rifle shot, sending an instant wave of electricity through his spine as Nathan turned around. As he caught sight of her, the morning sun dancing upon the skin of her face, her golden hair rustling gently in the light breeze, Nathan held his breath.

Kylen Celina; the woman to whom he'd once sworn eternal devotion, at one time been destined to build a life on a distant world with, the obsession of his heart that had sustained him through long and bitter war.

"Kylen," he finally whispered as he stood staring back across to her.

When he'd finally worked up the courage to call, his throat had been drier than it had been in the midst of any number of hairy dogfights.

Little had been said over the phone, but still enough for him to have heard the utter astonishment and disbelief in her voice over the line. And now, as she stood there before him, Nathan fully understood why there had been such shock in her tone.

With her left hand resting gently on the visible bulge of her belly, Nathan could plainly see the wedding band resting upon her ring finger.

From the look on her face, it was clear that she could read the flurry of thoughts racing through his mind at seeing the ring. At least, she might have thought she could read them.

As the two of them finally began to step towards one another, Kylen kept his gaze, uncertain, perhaps even a bit afraid.

"I'm sorry, Nathan," she began, a stream of tears rolling down her cheek as she moved. "God, Nathan, I am so sorry…"

Her voice choked, Kylen reached up and wrapped her arms around Nathan as the two of them finally reached one another.

Closing his eyes, Nathan took a deep breath, savoring the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body pressed to him.

"So why didn't you send me an invitation to the wedding?" he quipped, his voice cracking a bit as he held her.

Pulling back slightly, Kylen reached up and cupped his face with her hands.

"Oh, Nathan, I never meant to hurt you," she muttered, shaking her head as still more tears rolled down her cheeks. "I thought you were dead..."

Shaking his head slightly, the barest hint of a pained grin on his face, Nathan reached up and wiped the tears from her cheek.

"It's okay, Kylen," he said simply, the words scraping like sandpaper across his dry throat. "I…I understand."

Standing there, looking into one another's eyes, they shared an eternal moment, a lifetime relived in one instant…

Their first kiss…

The first time they'd made love…

The shared elation at being selected for the Tellus mission…

The crushing sorrow at being separated just prior to its launch…

And in that moment, Nathan West, the man he'd been honed into, tried by fire to become, was consumed by the most curious and surprising of sensations; relief.

For the first time he understood, he loved Kylen, he probably always would, but that part of his life had already passed a long time ago no matter how much he had tried to hold onto it.

"It all just _happened_…" she continued, her voice choking as she fought to find words. "He was there for me when I learned you'd been…I couldn't even bring myself to tell your mother; between Neil, you and your father, she's lost so much already…"

Resting his hand upon her cheek, the warmth of her flushed skin soothing against his palm, Nathan simply smiled.

"Kylen, I understand," he said simply as her eyes stared pleadingly back at him. "Let's just walk…"

Talking her hand in his, the two of them began making their way slowly around the park's path.

Tentatively, Kylen began to talk about her life since she'd come back as Nathan simply listened.

After returning to Earth, Kylen had begun counseling in order to come to terms with all the experiences she'd suffered as a prisoner. Nevertheless, at the suggestion of her counselor, Kylen had set out to rebuild her life in the wake of the experience by accepting a position with the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Not long after she'd started there, she met Jon, the man who would become her husband. Jon had been scheduled to join the cancelled Archer Colony, the next colony scheduled to be launched after Tellus had the war not intervened.

"In so many ways, he's a lot like you, Nathan," said Kylen evenly, unable to really bring herself to look at Nathan as she spoke. "He's warm, compassionate, driven, I guess that's why I fell in love with him so easily."

Silent, Nathan couldn't help but gloss over in his mind what Kylen was saying. In truth the man Kylen kept describing as 'Nathan West' was no longer the man he felt himself to be.

Try as he might to deny it, two years of brutal war, the death of his brother, the loss of his dearest friends, all of it had changed too much in him to ever be the same bleary-eyed, and even in his own harsh self-analysis, utterly naïve dreamer he'd been before the war.

The kind of innocent soul Kylen in most ways still was…

The kind of innocent soul Nathan knew she deserved to be with…

As they completed their fifth circle around the park, Nathan noticed nothing so much as the fact that the young mother and her son Neil had departed.

As he walked Kylen back over to her car, Nathan West felt more-or-less cathartic about having met with her.

That part of his life might have been forever, some might even say tragically lost to him now, but knowing that made him less apprehensive about his future than he would have guessed.

"When do you have to go back?" asked Kylen as she turned back to look at him

"Unless there's an emergency, not for a couple more weeks," replied Nathan evenly.

"I guess it doesn't really matter," muttered Kylen weakly as her hand brushed against her pregnant belly. "I'm supposed to be moving next week, I was offered a position in Tucson, the University of Arizona Research Hospital…"

Pausing, she looked back up into Nathan's eyes, her lips trembling a bit.

"Will you…write to me, let me know you're okay?"

"Sure," replied Nathan weakly, forcing out a grin. "Just be sure to let Jon know so he doesn't get jealous."

Nodding her head slightly, tears again beginning to stream down her cheeks, Kylen took quick, hesitant breaths as she fought back against her sobs.

"I guess I'd better let you go," sighed Nathan, a lump in his throat choking his words. "I'd imagine you still have a lot of packing to do."

Looking up into his face, at his forced grin, Kylen felt her pulse racing.

Urgently, almost desperately, Kylen reached out and scooped Nathan back up into her arms, hugging him desperately, almost as if she were afraid that if she let go, he would disappear.

"I always hated how they transported back to Earth so soon after the rescue," she said simply, her voice choking on her tears. "I know you lost a lot of good friends that day; I never felt I had a chance to really thank you or them for getting us back."

"It's what Marines do," replied Nathan simply, closing his eyes as he held her. "I'm just glad that you're safe, Kylen."

Pulling back, reluctantly, Kylen looked one last time into his eyes, her lips hesitant, as if about to say something more, but with the tears continuing to well in her eyes, she quickly retreated to her vehicle.

As she started the car and pulled away, Nathan gave her a slight wave, Kylen barely able to look at him as she drove away sobbing.

* * *

><p>As he slowly brought the car to a stop in the driveway, Nathan West was still more-or-less digesting his reunion with Kylen, a bit numb, but nevertheless oddly serene.<p>

The woman had been the love of his life, he'd thought his soul mate, but knowing now that it was truly a life he was no longer destined to live left Nathan strangely calm, almost at peace. He knew that as the numbness wore off, he might feel some anger, a bit of resentment over the loss of her, but for now, all Nathan tried to do was hold on to that sense and understanding that things were likely better this way.

At least now she wouldn't suffer if something did happen to him now.

Nathan had long since come to understand that his obsession with finding Kylen had as much to do with the guilt he had carried at not having been there with her when the Chigs attacked the colonial cutter when it arrived at Tellus.

Now, she was safe, had a new life, one he had no right to try and interfere with.

As he stepped back towards his childhood home, Nathan realized he was now, of all things, free.

Free to do what, he was not entirely certain yet, but it was nevertheless a weight with which he no longer felt burdened.

Stepping up to the door, Nathan grinned slightly as he caught sight of a simple handwritten note taped to it.

'_Went to the store, be back shortly_ "

His mother's handwriting.

To be sure his mother still continued to fret over him, her frenetic activity having as much to do with the fact that she lived in terror of the knowledge that he'd soon be returning to the war as anything else.

Thankfully, ever since the _Galactica_ had devastated their assault force, the Chigs hadn't made another attempt to strike at Earth. Given critical time, IFOR was using the breathing space to restructure the defense perimeter. Now no longer just a frantic jumbling together of last-ditch forces, there was a growing sense that Earth once more in inkling of hope, that annihilation was no longer near or inevitable for the human race.

What was still decidedly unclear, however, at least if one took the nightly news broadcasts at face value, was the future of the Colonials themselves; for reasons that were unclear at best, their petition for settlement was still mired in the machinations of the global bureaucracy.

Stepping into the kitchen, Nathan opened up the refrigerator, grabbed up the carton of milk inside, popped off the cap and took a swig. He knew his mother would have raised a fit if she'd seen him drinking directly from the carton, but with a smile on his face, he knew her not knowing was what made it fun.

It almost made him feel normal again.

A sudden knock at the front door startled Nathan, his body almost instinctively crouching a bit as his eyes scanned around the empty kitchen. As another knock echoed down the hall, he came back to his senses a bit; there were no Chigs in his home, just someone at the door.

Standing back up from his tense crouch, Nathan hurriedly put the cap back on the carton and returned it to the refrigerator.

Curious as to who might be at the door, but nevertheless a bit wary as well, Nathan began making his way along the hallway as another knock sounded out down the hallway.

"Just a minute," he called tentatively.

Reaching the door, Nathan grasped hold of the door knob, pausing as he began to turn it; almost as if he half-expected it were some Chig boobytrap.

Shaking off the notion, West pulled at the door.

To his surprise, Nathan found himself face-to-face with Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen.

Just behind him was Cooper Hawkes.

"Colonel?" muttered Nathan, staring somewhat quizzically at his former squadron CO.

To be sure, Nathan had heard the Colonel McQueen's voice over the radio during the engagement with the Chigs, but amid all the confusion of the _Saratoga_ coming home, Nathan had been quick to finish up his After-Action reports and scurry away on leave in order to escape what he was certain would be a whirlwind of press and brass surrounding the event.

With the steely-haired man now standing before him in his doorway, Nathan was in mild shock.

"So can we come in or do we have to stand here like this all day?" asked Hawkes in his usual unceremonious fashion.

Shaking himself from his mild shock at seeing the two of them at his door, West stammered for a moment.

"Colonel, Coop, come in, please," said West finally as he waved them in. "I'm the only one here, my mom and brother went to the store, they'll be back soon, though."

As West began leading them down the hallway, Hawkes kept looking around the area curiously, paying especially close attention as they passed by a school portrait of a ten-year-old Nathan West.

Stopping mid-step halfway down the hall, Nathan suddenly turned back to the unexpected visitors.

"My mom's not going to be happy to see the two of you here," he said simply.

"Well, we're not here to see her, we're here to see you," replied Hawkes evenly as he looked away from the portrait.

But from the expression on McQueen's face it was clear he had understood what it was West had meant.

"We won't stay long," said McQueen evenly. "But, we _do_ need to talk."

Nodding slightly, picking up on what he thought was some latent urgency in his former CO's demeanor, West led them out to the kitchen. As Nathan and McQueen settled in at the dinner table, Hawkes continued to look around in no small wonder at the myriad of decorations and photos on the walls.

For a moment, West had to remind himself just how unfamiliar Hawkes was with the idea of 'domestic life'. The InVitro had no family, no friends outside the Marines, so West tried to ignore his friend even as he continued to gawk at the myriad of pictures and mementos hanging on the wall.

"Now, I'm not here to catch up on old times, so I'll keep this brief," began McQueen as he too glanced over at the exploring Hawkes. "This isn't an official recall, you're still on leave, but, it might be soon, so just be prepared."

"Prepared for what, Colonel?" asked West evenly.

"Not exactly sure yet," sighed McQueen. "But I received a message from Vice Admiral Ross this morning "

"_Vice __Admiral_ Ross?" grinned West.

"What, you don't think he's earned a bump up to three stars?" asked McQueen pointedly. "His record in this war to date aside, surviving six months unsupported behind enemy lines while everyone else was tripping over themselves to fall back to Earth is no small feat."

"No, sir, it's not that, I guess I just haven't been paying as close attention to the news as I'd thought I was," replied Nathan with a slight chuckle.

"They promoted _me_ to Captain," chimed in Hawkes as he continued to stare at a family portrait hanging on the dining room wall. "Who'd have thought, right?"

Subtle shock creeping into his expression, West looked over at McQueen.

"Well I'm Colonel, which means I'm also the highest ranking person in this room," said McQueen, his tone slightly impatient. "So unless you both want to be butter-bars again, I suggest you listen up. Hawkes, get over here."

Prodded by the sharp tone in the Colonel's voice, Hawkes made his way over to the table and slowly lowered himself into a chair.

"Now, as I was saying, I received a message from Admiral Ross this morning," continued McQueen as he looked over at the two officers. "There wasn't much to it, but if I know Admiral Ross, he's got something working in the wings that would seem to include a mission for the both of you."

"Any idea what that mission might be, Colonel?" asked Hawkes simply.

"Frankly, no," sighed McQueen. "I got the distinct impression he didn't want to say anything specific over an unencrypted line."

"Something covert then?" asked West pointedly.

"Probably," replied McQueen with a sigh. "Wouldn't be the first time you boys were tasked with carrying out a black-op."

"But I heard a rumor that they were eliminating the air-commando groups," interjected Hawkes evenly. "Talk was of us maybe becoming straight air-wingers."

"Since day one of this war, all of the services, US and worldwide, have been spread thin trying to cope with the Chig threat," began McQueen evenly. "Hardly need to tell the two of you that our forces simply weren't prepared to handle a conflict of this scale anymore."

"Are they still talking about reintroducing the draft, sir?" asked West, his thoughts drifting back to his mother's comment about some Earth Commonwealth nations lowering their enlistment ages.

"So far it's still just talk," sighed McQueen. "After our forces were pushed back off the Chig's home turf, there was a surge in volunteers, MEPS has been working overtime to process all the latest recruits. I guess the threat of the war roaring back to Earth's doorstep was a pretty good motivator."

"Still, it's going to take time to get those new boots trained up, Colonel," countered West evenly.

"True, but with the new recruit depot they've opened down in Guantanamo, and recruit training itself cut back to just sixteen weeks, the Corps alone could be back up to half a million in strength by the end of the year," replied McQueen evenly. "With the Army, Navy and Air Force also surging their numbers, it's clear the Pentagon has pretty much thrown out the proportionate response doctrine; the top brass has really been jumping through organizational and logistical hoops to rewind the clock back to the 'hey-day' of twentieth century attrition warfare."

There was a decidedly sobering, even a bit sardonic tone in the Colonel's voice as he spoke. Indeed, to refer to a time when the military operations were conducted as strictly a numbers game, throwing men by the thousands into the fray hoping to overwhelm the enemy by sheer numbers alone as a 'hey-day' only seemed to emphasize how much of a threat the enemy still posed to Earth's bruised military forces.

But with the continued survival of the human race still very much at stake, perhaps no sacrifice was above making.

"Has there been any word as to when or if the Fifty-Eighth will be reconstituted?" asked West evenly.

"Not as such, no," replied McQueen evenly. "Word from Washington is sketchy at best right now, most of the focus seems to be on shoring up the defenses around planet, getting our capital ships back to fighting trim, and waiting for whatever the UN decides to do with the Colonials while we continue to mass our forces for a new offensive."

"I still can't believe there's even a debate going on, sir," huffed West, shaking his head. "Are the politicians really so short-sighted? I mean, their ships alone could finally bring this war to an end."

"Yeah, they whipped Chiggy's ass a couple times now, what more does the UN need?" interjected Hawkes.

"For reasons far above our pay-grades, it's apparently not so simple," replied McQueen evenly. "More to the point, it's also none of our concern, you two just need to be ready when Admiral Ross calls for you."

With that, McQueen stood up and began making his way back towards the front door, Hawkes falling into step closely behind.

As he followed Colonel McQueen and Hawkes back down the hallway towards the front door, West continued to grapple with the almost cryptic reason the two had come there in the first place. True enough, as a Marine he'd gotten used to an amount of secrecy; by means that seemed to defy comprehension, the Chigs had demonstrated a nasty ability to ferret out compartmentalized information in the past. Nevertheless, he was still curious as to what Admiral Ross might have in mind that it would prompt McQueen to come in person.

As the three of them reached the door, West opened it, taking a quick peek out at the drive-way just to make sure his mother hadn't arrived home yet; considering her thoroughly soured attitude about the military she likely wouldn't be too thrilled if she saw McQueen and Hawkes standing there.

"So, West, coming home and all..." began Hawkes, his gaze looking back over at the photos lining the hall. "What's it been like being back after so much time in the thick?"

"Strange, different I guess," replied West pensively as he too looked at some of the pictures on the wall. "Still can't quite believe I'm home sometimes, it all feels like a lifetime ago since I was last here."

Pausing, McQueen gave West an appraising glance.

"I understand your father died after you were declared missing," muttered McQueen solemnly. "You have my deepest condolences, Nathan."

"Thank you, Colonel," replied West somewhat weakly, his tone a bit distant. "I guess the thought that two of his sons were gone was just too much for him."

Nodding slightly, McQueen leveled a piercing gaze at West.

"And what about the girl?" he asked simply. "Kylen?"

Looking back over into McQueen's steady, questioning eyes, West took a deep breath, then mustered up a weak grin.

"Also a lifetime ago," he sighed. "But…life moves on."

Nodding slightly, McQueen gave West a gentle, almost knowing pat on the shoulder, then turned and began making his way back along the walkway towards the late nineteen-sixties vintage Ford Mustang parked along the street.

Seeing the car, Nathan couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle; somehow, it didn't seem in any way anachronistic for McQueen to own such an ancient vehicle, indeed, it seemed to fit his personality like a glove. Colonel McQueen had always seemed like a man whose values and ethics were just a touch out of step, more tradition-bound, indeed almost chivalrous by comparison to most people nowadays.

The man seemed every bit a shining Knight displaced, no small wonder he'd be riding a fast and equally noble steed.

Glancing back over at Hawkes, West watched as the InVitro continued to cast curious glances around at the pictures hanging on the wall.

To anyone who didn't know him, it might have seemed like Hawkes was being overly curious, even a bit intrusive; the odd wonder of a mind piqued by tangible sentiments that were generally outside its limited life-experience.

But, to those who did know him, those now precious few who had even tried, the answer behind Hawkes' curiosity was simple; as an InVitro, having never had a home, never had a family, the West residence was almost as strange and alien a place to Hawkes as the deepest jungle moon in Chig territory.

Not for the first time, West had to wonder just how much deeper Hawkes' sense of duty must be, to fight, boldly, bravely, for the survival of a planet and a society that at times had brutally discriminated against his kind.

Cooper Hawkes' life seemed to have been one spent railing defiantly, even explosively against that discrimination, his every action in opposition to his having once been categorized as a 'defective tank' for daring to question his monitors at the InVitro training facility.

But beneath that defiance, there was always an almost childlike wonderment and desire for acceptance, to be seen as no more or less a human being than anyone else.

"You know, Coop, you're welcome to stay for dinner if you'd like," said West evenly.

Flashing a glance over at West, Hawkes seemed to consider the offer for a moment.

"No, I'd better not," grinned Hawkes somewhat sheepishly. "If the Colonel's right, you should spend as much time with your family as you can; who knows what kind of a hairy furball the Admiral has in mind for us back out there."

Giving Hawkes a gentle pat on the shoulder, West watched as his friend turned and likewise made his way out towards McQueen's car.

Standing there in the doorway, West continued to mull things over in his mind. Coop was right, if Admiral Ross had bothered to have McQueen show up and deliver a message in person, no matter how vague or cryptic, then Boss Ross likely had something very big in mind.

No sooner had the Colonel and Hawkes pulled away, the low rumble of the utterly archaic internal combustion engine echoing through the air, than Nathan saw his mother's car pull into the driveway, his little brother John practically exploding from the passenger side even as his mother was coming to a stop.

"Nathan, Nathan!" shouted John excitedly as he rushed up, coming to a breathless pause in front of his brother. "Mom just told me; is it true, did you really get to go aboard one of the Colonial ships?"

Glancing over at his mother as she began pulling bags of groceries from the back seat, Nathan watched as she silently mouthed 'it just slipped out'.

Scowling slightly at his barely apologetic mother, Nathan looked down into the eager eyes of his little brother, letting out a long sigh as he noted John's near ear-to-ear grin.

"Yeah, John, it's true," said Nathan simply, shaking his head as his little brother's grin became somewhat infectious. "I was aboard the _Galactica_ for several days before we got back to Earth."

His little brother's eyes going wide, he sucked in a deep breath.

"Oh man, Kyle Serrano is going to _freak_ when I tell him," sputtered John excitedly. "I keep telling him the Colonials are good guys, the way they blasted the Chigs out of the sky. Now my brother was aboard one of their ships, and their _flagship_ too? Oh, man this is so great!"

"Maybe we'd better keep this a secret," began Nathan as he crouched down a bit and looked into his brother's excited eyes. "There's a lot of people like Kyle who don't trust the Colonials yet."

"What!" sputtered John, his voice squeaking a bit. "Keep it a secret, are you _crazy_? Kyle's gonna _puke_ himself if I tell him my brother actually _knows_ the Colonials."

"Think of it this way," continued Nathan evenly, pausing to take in a breath, his knees aching a bit. "This is something top-secret, real special commando-stuff, right, so I can't have you telling anyone."

"You told mom," countered John flatly.

"Okay, consider it a _family_ secret then."

As he stood there for a moment, looking into Nathan's eyes, it was clear that gears were spinning rapidly within John West's young mind.

"Okay, I'll keep it a secret," he finally sighed. "But if I have to pass on a chance to make Kyle Serrano eat his words, it's gonna cost you, Nathan."

Chuckling a bit at his little brother's shrewd audacity, Nathan glanced back over at his mother as she approached, her expression clearly amused.

"Okay, name your price," said Nathan, grinning a bit.

"My chores for one week; dishes, trash, mowing the lawn," replied John evenly, counting off the chores on his fingers as he listed them.

As Nathan reached his hand out towards his brother, ready to shake on it, John yanked his hand back slightly at the last moment.

"_And_," he said, cocking his head slightly. "You have to give me a tour of a Hammerhead fighter."

Catching a glimpse of his mother's smile fading a bit, Nathan looked back down at his insistent little brother.

For Nathan and his mother, the memory of what had happened to the other West brother, Neil, was instantly at the forefront of their minds as John waited expectantly for an answer.

"How about a compromise," replied Nathan after a few moments of staring into his brother's impatient expression. "Your chores for one week, _and_ I'll take you to Six-Flags Las Vegas instead."

For a moment, John seemed to mull over the counter-offer, his head literally swaying back and forth a bit as he considered it.

"Okay, you have a deal," he said at last, clasping down firmly onto Nathan's hand.

With that, John turned, took a couple of bags from Anne West's hands, then promptly passed them to Nathan before trotting off down the hallway towards his room.

Grinning as he voluntarily took a few more bags from his mother, Nathan West looked into her visibly relieved expression.

"Of course you know I'll need to borrow the car to take him," he smiled.

"Dear God, _take_ the car," she sighed vehemently as she stepped past him through the door. "Whatever it takes to keep him away from _anything_ that has to do with the _damned_ military."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Commander's Quarters**

"Wait, they think it was _how_ long ago?" asked Colonel Runel abruptly, his face contorting a bit as he waited for Commander Kelso to answer.

"One-hundred and fifty thousand years," reiterated Kelso slowly, his own head shaking slightly in disbelief as he again read the text on the report the UN envoy had delivered. "Give or take a millennia or two."

Looking up from the report, Commander Sean Kelso then glanced around at the faces of his senior combat ship commanders and saw expressions that ran the gambit from speechless to utterly stunned confusion.

"No, that _can't_ be right," sputtered Colonel Brianna Webber, half-chuckling. "Someone down there must have _really_ screwed something up to come up with such a ridiculous number."

"All I can tell you is what it says here in the report," sighed Commander Kelso as he reached out and let the folder drop onto his desk.

"Gods, you'd think with all the trouble we went through just getting the Sagittarans and Gemenese to agree to having the samples taken in the first place they could have at least done their tests correctly," muttered Major Ambrose as he sat shaking his head.

"The tests _were_ done correctly," countered the Commander evenly. "At least they finally accept that we're as human as they are."

"I'm still at a loss how that was even a controversy in the first place, sir," began Colonel Webber, shaking her head slightly.

"That's one you're better off just throwing onto the pile with the rest of Earth's little idiosyncrasies," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he looked over at Webber. "Since they've been able to engineer and artificially gestate a population of their own, they simply wanted to ensure we weren't created the same way."

"I still have trouble wrapping my head around that one," muttered Major Jasper, shaking her head slightly. "Making people, growing them in tanks like an assembly line…it's just a bit creepy."

At that, Kelso simply glanced over at Jasper, raising up his eyebrow a bit, but nevertheless remaining silent. Much as he hated to admit, and Kelso never would think to openly, it _was_ a bit creepy.

"In any event, Commander, proving to them that we're human hasn't exactly helped our cause," snorted Ambrose as he leaned back in his seat. "They still haven't said whether we can start unloading our civilians yet."

"Well, one step at a time, I guess," sighed Kelso as he too leaned back into his seat, his gaze settling on the soundproof tiles overhead. "I think the timeline presented by the genetic survey kind of threw them for a loop too; they hadn't expected it any more than we did."

"Is it _possible_ that all this confusion about how much time has passed is just some stupid mix-up over nomenclature?" asked Major Jasper hesitantly. "I mean a 'year' on Caprica wasn't exactly the same thing as a 'year' on Aquaria or Picon, maybe this is something similar."

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Kelso smirked a bit as he looked over at Jasper, the young woman's expression clearly indicating that she'd been grasping at straws when she'd uttered the suggestion.

"Earth would have to be whipping around that sun pretty fraking fast for this big of a discrepancy to arise over nomenclature, Major," countered Kelso as he once again let his gaze wander back to the tiles overhead. "No, any difference between our 'year' and theirs is only a matter of days; with the genetic facts and evidence we have in hand, it would seem our two societies were divided long before the Exodus from Kobol chronicled in the sacred scrolls."

"Has President Bess seen this report yet, sir?" asked Colonel Runel evenly.

"Another UN envoy did head over to _Asterica_…or _Colonial One_ rather…" pausing, Kelso glanced back over at Jasper. "Gods, now _there's_ a problem with nomenclature..."

Grinning weakly, Jasper shook her head slightly.

"In any event, I'm sure they delivered a similar copy to him," continued Kelso as he leaned once more back over his desk, shaking his own head slightly as he once again read the conclusion on the page. "Now whether or not he's had a chance to see it yet, that's a whole other matter."

"His new ministers still giving him trouble?" smirked Runel.

"I get the sense that he was under less stress during the evacuation from Sagittaron," grinned Kelso as he looked back up from the report. "My understanding is that it took almost half a day of intense negotiation just to get them all to agree to the seating arrangements."

"Gods help the politicians," muttered Webber sardonically.

"Speaking of which, has the United Nations at least given some indication of what it is that still has our petition bogged down in bureaucracy?" asked Colonel Runel evenly. "Even with, what did they say, twelve billion other people down there, I can't imagine the hold-up is simply because they think Earth doesn't have enough space."

"If I take their information requests as an indication, my guess would be that they're hesitant to let us settle because they're worried about the Cylons catching back up with us," replied Commander Sean Kelso as he scratched at an itch behind his ear. "Can't say I necessarily blame them either; from what Ross and Cassel told me this war against the Chigs has them stretched pretty thin as it is, no telling how badly their fleets would fare against a Cylon task force."

"Just one Cylon Basestar would be able to maul one of those carriers of theirs before they even had a chance to get a shot off," muttered Major Ambrose, snorting slightly. "Has anyone bothered to point out to them that if the Cylons _do_ show up, they probably won't care whether they see us in orbit or not, they'll likely just nuke Earth anyway?"

"I more-or-less included that conclusion with the dossier we submitted," sighed Commander Kelso as he looked over at Ambrose. "But I don't think stoking their fears is the best way of going about this."

"But if the carrot of having access to our technology isn't enough to sway them, sir, what else is there?" muttered Major Tyle, her voice low, somewhat despondent.

Looking over at Tyle, Commander Kelso once again found himself wondering how well the _Proteus_' CO was actually holding up. Ever since the attack on her ship, Tyle's confidence, in herself most especially, seemed to be teetering on the edge. Unless something changed in her soon, Commander Sean Kelso knew he'd be facing the stark prospect of having to replace her, especially if they went back into combat.

From the worried expressions of the faces of Colonel Runel and Colonel Webber, it was clear they too were concerned about the woman.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Kelso sat up in his seat.

"For now all we can do is continue to offer our support and hope it's enough to sway the skeptics," sighed Commander Kelso as he fingered the edges of the folder holding the UN report, curiously noting how the pages, having been printed on Earth, were perfectly rectangular. "Our technology has definite advantages that I'm betting they won't simply pass on, especially since we actually found a way to defeat the alien's stealth technology."

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Commander Sean Kelso winced mentally. Considering the fact that he already had his doubts about Major Tyle's mental state, the last thing he knew he needed to be doing was throwing our reminders, no matter how obliquely, to the damage and casualties her ship had suffered.

Glancing over at her, Kelso noted how Tyle took a deep breath, her already bowed head dipping a little more. Again, it was not an observation that was lost on either Colonel Runel or Colonel Webber either.

"In an event," sighed Commander Kelso evenly. "Unless any of you have anything further, I suggest we call it a day."

As the assemblage moved to depart, Commander Kelso casually motioned for Runel and Webber to stay. Settling back into their seats, Runel and Webber simply watched as the other three officers filed out the entry. As the Marine posted outside closed the heavy door with a dull thump, Commander Kelso took a deep breath as he looked over into the waiting faces of the two Colonels.

"Well since I've been stuck playing politics lately with the United Nations, you two have been had more contact with her," muttered Kelso as he slowly stood up and began making his way around to the front of the desk, holding eye contact with both Runel and Webber as he moved. "How well do you two think Tyle's holding up?"

Glancing at one another for a moment, both Runel and Webber seemed to hesitate.

"That's what I thought," muttered Kelso as he looked up at the closed entry hatch.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" asked Runel simply as he gently scratched at the back of his neck.

Nodding slightly, Kelso looked back over to Runel as the man let out a long sigh.

"I'm not entirely certain Major Tyle's going to be able to work her way out of this, sir," he said evenly as he leaned forward in his seat a bit. "I've spoken with some of her crew over the wireless, even their courier officer, they're all telling me that she's spending less and less time in _Proteus_' CIC these days."

"So you think she's ignoring her duties?"

"It's not so much that, Commander," replied Runel, pausing, his head shaking slightly as he glanced over at Webber.

"From what we've heard she's been spending most of her time down on the flight deck," continued Webber as she too leaned forward a bit.

"So she's been overseeing the repair work then," offered Kelso, his tone somewhat hopeful the two officers would be able to confirm as much.

"From what we've been told she usually just stands there, sir," sighed Webber, stammering for a moment. "She doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't check with the repair crews on how the work is proceeding; she just stands up on the catwalk, silently watching for hours on end."

"I'm running out of suggestions on how you can spin this in a positive way for her," smirked Kelso as he looked from Webber back to Runel.

"Frankly, sir, I'm not sure there is a way to spin this," replied Runel flatly. "Tyle's simply gone numb; she may not be up to the task of commanding of _Proteus_ anymore, at least not if we go back into combat."

"And what do you think, Brianna?" asked Kelso pointedly, his choice in using her first name a clear indication he was expecting her to be candid.

"Much as I hate to say it, Commander, I'm not sure Major Tyle should be left in command anymore either."

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso dipped his head slightly.

"I don't feel I need to remind either of you that there is a paucity of viable replacements if I take Tyle away from the center table," began Kelso as he paced slightly in front of his desk. "In fact, since neither Major Jasper or Major Ambrose have any carrier experience, I really only have two possible names; your XO, Colonel Webber, or mine."

"I'd be hesitant to recommend Major Beech as a replacement, sir," began Webber evenly. "He'd only just been bumped up from CAG to XO a week before the Cylon attack; even after the last several months, he's still pretty much in the adjustment phase."

"And if you don't mind my saying so, Commander," interjected Runel as he smirked slightly. "Major Burke might not be the kind of harsh task-master that crew needs right now; they need someone who's going to be able to inspire them, get their spirits back into shape as well as the ship."

"Near seven months now standing opposite her, you don't have to tell me, Colonel," grinned Kelso canting his head slightly. "Tactics, operations, procedures, she's a pro, no doubt about that, but when it comes to people, she's definitely got more in common with a surly junk-yard dog than anything else."

At that, both Webber and Runel chuckled a bit.

"I guess for the time being we'll settle for the half-solution," began Kelso a moment later, still pacing slightly as he spoke. "Green as you think he may be Colonel Webber, let's go ahead and have Major Beech cross-deck to the _Proteus_."

Crossing his arms, Commander Kelso paused in front of his desk and leaned back against it as he looked over at the Colonels.

"Officially he'll be her new XO," continued Kelso. "At the very least, it will give both him and the _Proteus_ crew a chance to get familiar with one another just in case we do have to pull Tyle out."

"And what exactly are you going to tell her, sir?" asked Webber pointedly. "She's bound to see the writing on the wall once he arrives there."

"In a roundabout way I'm counting on it," sighed Kelso. "If the idea that she's on the verge of losing her command snaps her back out of this mood she's in, so much the better. If not, then it means she really has no place at the center table anymore. That's all we can do for the moment."

"One step at a time, sir?" smirked Runel.

"Exactly," grinned Kelso, again canting his head slightly as he glanced back and forth at the two officers. "Speaking of steps, there's something I've been meaning to ask the both of you."

"What's that, Commander?" asked Runel evenly, perking up a bit in his seat.

"I understand through the rumor-mill that you two may have finally settled on a date for your wedding," grinned Kelso as he shifted slightly. "Don't mind saying that I'm kind of hurt that I haven't found an invitation in my inbox yet."

The two of them grinning slightly, Colonel Runel and Colonel Webber glanced at one another.

"Damned if we can keep _any_ secrets in a fleet this small," smirked Runel as he motioned over at Webber. "Might as well tell the man."

"We were looking at having the ceremony coincide with what would have been the beginning of Ostara festival on Aerilon," replied Colonel Webber, glancing over at the Commander to see by his expression whether he understood the significance.

"Ah yes, the spring harvest celebration," nodded Commander Kelso, his grin still evident as he eyed the two officers. "So whose tradition are we following with that?"

"The bride's, of course," smiled Runel as he motioned over at Webber again. "Last thing I'd want to risk is her launching a Viper strike on my ship because I argued with her about it."

"Smart man," chuckled Kelso. "Besides, it's as good a time as any; supposed to be a very 'fertile' time to get married if I recall correctly."

"Well, hopefully not too fertile," muttered Runel as he cast a sidewise glance back over at Webber.

"Oh, like _you'd_ be the one suffering," scoffed Webber, rolling her eyes slightly. "My back aches enough as it is after a tour in CIC without having to think about standing there while pregnant."

At that, all three of them let out chuckle.

"In all seriousness, though, Commander, you don't have to worry about any wedding-night mishaps," began Webber as she looked back over to Kelso. "My medical officer and I have been keeping track of my cycle, so…"

"Whoa," scoffed Kelso, all but hopping back to his feet, holding his hands up slightly as he began making his way back around towards his seat. "Now that right there, Colonel Webber, falls firmly within the categories of 'too much information' and 'none of _my_ business'."

Even Runel seemed to wince a bit at his fiancée's forthright statement.

"Sorry, sir," shrugged Webber, grinning slightly. "Just trying to put both of your minds at ease; I know the last thing we need right now are more complications to worry about."

* * *

><p><strong>Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System<strong>

Not for the first time, Cain Six-Oh-Seven wondered if the humans had any inkling of just how limited their languages truly were. Even the Asian languages, with dialects that consisted of literally hundreds of differing ideograms came up lacking when compared to the complexities of the language used by the Silicates' 'allies'.

Grinning slightly, Cain Six-Oh-Seven's artificial mind accessed the definition for the abstract notion of irony as he considered the word 'ally' as it related to the beings before him.

In hard reality, it was a term which no longer applied.

The inhabitants of the fifth world of the Helios system, their indigenous name for themselves still defying even _his_ ability to fully articulate accurately, were in fact an occupied society. As different as their proxies were from the Carbonites in language, culture and biochemistry, they nevertheless still shared an ever-so-easily exploitable weakness with the human race; a willingness to sacrifice themselves en masse in the vain hope of preventing the wider extinction of their race.

By threatening to unleash highly virulent biological weapons across the surface of the sacred moon where their new slaves sired their offspring, the Silicates had gained the perfect leverage, an ideal hole-card that would keep their unwilling proxies in this war to the bitter end. With the potential destruction of their entire species hanging in the balance, the military caste would continue to throw themselves suicidally against the defenses of the Carbonites at the whim of the AI's who now held their sacred moon hostage.

And that is precisely what the Silicates needed of them in order to carry forward with their plan.

It was no longer enough for the Silicates to merely play the two biological species off against one another, to goad, to prod, to play puppeteer; at this stage in the plan, they needed the two societies to utterly grind each other into the ground in order for the AI's to truly succeed where their distant forerunners had failed.

And in the fraction of an instant it took for his artificial mind to process that notion, Cain Six-Oh-Seven looked down from his self-designed throne at the Supreme Military Commander with a cold approximation of a smile.

"Have your intelligence assets completed their analysis of the engagement in the Sol system?" asked Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly. "Are your forces prepared to renew their offensive based on that new information?"

Nestled within the comforting methane atmosphere of his homeworld, the Supreme Military Leader, helmet removed, looked up from a bowed knee towards Cain Six-Oh-Seven, his depthless black eyes almost perceptibly somber.

"All of our analysis efforts lead to the same conclusion; our forces are utterly outmatched," he began evenly, the gills along his neck moving wildly as he took in an apprehensive breath. "With the humans now in possession of these new and powerful warships, even our current technological and individual weapon superiorities will be rendered null. We will lose this war."

With that, the Supreme Military Commander once more bowed his head, casting his eyes down away from Cain Six-Oh-Seven.

"I find your report most disquieting," began Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly as he looked over at the other Silicates seated beside him. "Perhaps you wish to surrender, yes?"

His eyes instantly snapping back to Cain Six-Oh-Seven, the Supreme Military Commander was visibly frantic, the respiratory membranes inside the being's gills quivering slightly with agitation.

It had been the possibility of the beings surrendering to the humans that had prompted the AI's to seize control in the first place. It was understood that any attempt to end the war other than by victory would mean the detonation of the biological devices on the sacred moon, obliterating the entire crèche of unborn generations being nurtured there.

"No, we understand that surrender is not an option," the Supreme Military Commander replied flatly. "We are simply unable to account for the humans being able to acquire these warships. There was no indication they were anywhere near being able to build them."

"Perhaps it is your confidence in your own warriors that has faltered then, yes?" interjected Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he cast an utterly cold glance down towards the Supreme Military Commander.

"My warriors have never faltered in the face of battle, so my confidence in them has never faltered," countered the Supreme Military Commander, its seething indignation apparent. "We merely require more information if we are to adapt our forces to combat this new threat effectively. How did the humans obtain this technology so quickly?"

Cain Six-Oh-Seven sat silent for a moment, a flurry of options being assessed by his CPU.

He _could_ tell the Supreme Military Commander the truth, all of it or at least in part, _or_ he could simply lie.

For AI's there was no _ethical_ dilemma in making the choice as to which path to take, it was merely a matter of calculating the probabilities in order to determine which choice had the best chance of eliciting the end the Silicates desired.

"We are working to ascertain the exact origin of these new human ships," began Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly. "It is fortunate that limited production has begun on your new generation of fighter, they were at least able to inflict some damage before being destroyed."

"They weren't destroyed," countered the Supreme Military Commander evenly. "Your compatriots ordered them to ram the vessel."

"Nevertheless, heavy damage was inflicted upon the enemy," replied Cain Six-Oh-Seven coolly. "More to the point, it is clear that the stealth technology is still effective at evading detection, even by these new ships."

"We would be in a position to build even more of them if you had not begun diverting such large quantities of materials and resources away from military production," continued the Supreme Military Commander. "The losses we have suffered has left our fleet critically diminished; in its current state offensive operations of any kind will prove difficult."

"Perhaps," grinned Cain Six-Oh-Seven menacingly. "But I would warn you against questioning our decision; those resources are needed for a far more important project."

"Understood," replied the Supreme Military Commander, its respiratory membranes again quivering in frustration. "But the fact remains that we have far too few heavy warships to be able to launch an effective strike at this time."

"Then for now, concentrate on fortifying your territorial defenses," continued Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he dismissively motioned for the Supreme Military Commander to depart. "The humans will no doubt launch an offensive of their own soon. Once they have done so, we fully expect your forces to repel them. After that is done, we will advise you on when we expect you to retake the offensive."

With a slight nod, the Supreme Military Commander stood up, turned and exited the hall.

* * *

><p>As he made his way through the corridor, the Supreme Military Commander tried to restrain his impulse to scream.<p>

In rage…

In fear…

Since before the war, the Silicates had been providing them with vital data and intelligence on the humans. In retrospect, the fact that they had done so for relatively little or nothing in return should have been a signal to the Supreme Authority that all was not as it appeared.

But before the war his race had had little experience in recognizing and countering subterfuge; duplicity as such simply didn't exist in their society. The humans on the other hand seemed to thrive on lies, the chaos that misinformation inspired. Terribly naïve of his people that they hadn't considered the likelihood that the Silicates would be just as adept at deception as well.

Now, because of that catastrophic oversight, his entire species was helpless in the face of threatened extinction, firmly trapped beneath the heel of these artificial oppressors.

The Supreme Military Commander understood all too well that his entire race was trapped between two crushing, neigh insurmountable choices. The first lay with finding a way to defeat the humans on military terms, an unattainable prospect that would only result in the senseless sacrifice of hundreds of thousands if not millions more of his people in futile battle. Or, as a species, they could simply refuse to continue the fight and watch, helpless, as a tidal wave of biological toxins poured over their sacred moon, scouring the embryonic future of their entire race away for all time.

Which of the two impossible choices was more palatable; mass suicide or extinction?

If only there was more time.

The only hope left seemed to lie in the fact that the now slain Supreme Authority had early on decided against aiding the Silicates in obtaining or fabricating the technology necessary to repair the damage that decades of neglect and warfare with the humans had inflicted upon their synthetic bodies. Given time, the relatively fallible human technology would simply break down, cease to function; the Silicates would begin to simply shut-down one by one.

The only problem with waiting for that to happen was that it took _time_, time during which scores of his people would continue to die futilely.

The Supreme Military Commander's only hope in the near-term lay with finding a way to stem the tide of the pointless slaughtering of his warriors without making it apparent, obfuscate his efforts to mitigate the loss without appearing duplicitous.

At that thought, the Supreme Military Commander felt a moment of utter disgust; how truly distasteful it was that the only way he could see to throw off the yoke of the Silicates, to forestall the onslaught of the humans, was for him and his race to devolve in such a way as to become just as deceitful as both.

* * *

><p>"It seems clear that our allies have lost their stomach for this conflict," began Burke MR Oh-Eight-Nine evenly as the entry closed behind the departing Supreme Military Commander. "We need to be watchful for signs of rebellion from them."<p>

"Fortunately for us, unlike the Carbonites, they have relatively little experience with committing acts of treachery," said Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he casually played with the bits of shredded synthetic flesh on his hands. "Nevertheless, I agree, they will likely attempt to betray us; we should be vigilant."

"The real question we need to be asking is how it is that after so many millennia we find ourselves facing _Colonial_ warships?" asked Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three.

"Unknown," replied Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly. "And in the end, irrelevant; we cannot allow ourselves to be deterred at this stage even by this unexpected a development. Indeed, their arrival might in fact benefit us in the long run by distracting both our allies and the Carbonites long enough for us to complete the project."

"But how can you be so certain this does not pose a greater threat to our plan?" asked Julie UC Two-One-Four, her voice distorting slightly due to damage to her vocal processor. "The fact that our predecessors failed to destroy humanity should be reason enough for us to be cautious of Colonial involvement in the conflict."

"It is simply a better reason for us to carry forward with due haste," replied Cain Six-Oh-Seven flatly. "In any event, construction is nearly complete."

"And after that, our 'allies' will be of little use to us and we can exterminate them along with the Carbonites," added Burke MR Oh-Eight-Nine menacingly.

"Only _after_ they have fully served their purpose," countered Cain Six-Oh-Seven. "Let the biologicals continue to bleed one another dry, right to the end. If nothing else, it will keep the humans distracted, and their distraction is what we need most. Let us not forget that one overriding lesson we should take from the example of our predecessors; humanity has a most uncanny ability to confound expectation. We can't afford to give them a chance to figure out what we have in store for them."

"So you _do_ think the arrival of the Colonials poses a threat," noted Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three, a cold smirk on her marred face.

"Only if they discover the truth before we have completed our preparations," answered Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly. "The Supreme Military Commander is right about one thing; by comparison to what our allies can bring to bear, Colonial military hardware is decidedly formidable."

"But still finite," countered Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven. "Yes, our contacts indicate there is still significant debate amongst the Carbonite governments as to whether or not they'll even allow the Colonials to remain on Earth, much less what their role in this conflict will be."

"The capacity for the humans to debate even the most trivial of matters is only surpassed by their over-riding compulsion for self-preservation," stated Cain Six-Oh-Seven evenly. "We cannot depend on their inherently chaotic nature; we must assume there will be continued Colonial participation in this conflict. Are we in consensus?"

With that, the other four members of the Silicate council bowed their heads slightly in deference to Cain Six-Oh-Seven.

"By your command," they said in unisons.

* * *

><p><strong>Aero-Tech Corporate Headquarters<br>****Las Vegas, Nevada**

Taking in a deep breath, Michael Lane slowly lifted the crystal glass to his lips and took a sip of scotch as a wave of pleasure worked its way up his spine.

Looking out the panoramic window of his office at the sparkling casinos arrayed along Las Vegas Boulevard, Sin City's renowned 'Strip' looking like a dazzling array of illuminated jewels in the night, Lane was savoring the fruits of his meteoric, and unabashedly duplicitous, rise to power.

Seven months ago, the iron-fisted tenure of Aero-Tech's previous CEO, E. Allen Wayne, had come to an unexpected end aboard the _Saratoga_, the Chig 'Peace Envoy' stabbing him to death only moments before it committed the suicide bombing which killed several senior military officers.

Like many others, Lane had been quick to feign mourning over Wayne's passing. In truth, the only real tragedy to Lane's mind was that Wayne's death had been relatively quick, short on suffering and too long in coming.

E. Allen Wayne had been a truly insufferable son-of-a-bitch, an intolerable martinet whose end should have entailed much more torment.

Still, even as he mockingly shed what could only at best be described as crocodile tears, Michael Lane had quickly seized upon the chaos of Wayne's demise.

With most of Aero-Tech's governing board either obliquely or in some cases unequivocally implicated in precipitating the events which had sparked the war with the Chigs, Lane had ruthlessly undercut or outright betrayed all other pretenders vying for Wayne's vacant throne.

The purging of opposition began when Lane went out of his way to 'cooperate' with a Justice Department investigation into Aero-Tech's concealment of Chig attempts to warn humanity away prior to the slaughter of the Vesta and Tellus colonists.

Adding fuel to the furor, Lane had then granted most every conspiracy nut's wet-dream by deliberately 'leaking' copious amounts of documents and internal company memoranda onto the internet, some authentic, some manufactured for simplicity's sake, showing that Aero-Tech executives had not only ignored warnings from the Chigs to stay away from their territory prior to the attacks of Vesta and Tellus, but had in fact been active and ardent participants in a cover-up regarding the existence of the aliens spanning all the way back to the legendary if often derided Roswell incident over a century before.

The collective orgasm of so many internet conspiracy bloggers had been almost palpable by his surreptitious revelation that a damaged Chig scout craft had indeed crashed on Earth nearly a hundred and twenty years ago in the New Mexico desert.

But while the fortunes of war turning against Earth had brought the Justice Department's investigation to a quick and shamelessly political end, the damage had been done, much to Lane's favor.

Most of the his former Aero-Tech superiors were now cooling their heels under negotiated sentences in 'club-Fed'

One, John Bennett, his most serious rival to the position of CEO, had utterly cracked under the pressure and quite publicly took his own life on the steps of the Capital building as the news cameras were rolling.

Only Diane Hayden had been spared in his upwardly mobile evisceration of Aero-Tech's upper echelons; not so much because she'd left her position on the governing board some time ago, but rather because he felt it much more convenient to be able to hold something over the currently-serving Secretary General of the United Nations.

Yes, the ability to blackmail the elected leader of the entire Earth Commonwealth was a handy thing to have in his pocket should things ever get too difficult in the future.

Nevertheless, with Aero-Tech Industries itself far too vital for the world's war effort, the very definition of 'too big to fail', the decision of who should take control of the Western world's preeminent military contractor had, just as Lane intended, settled upon him.

Seemingly untainted by the scandal, a perceived White Knight amid a court of corrupt fools, he'd ascended to control of Aero-Tech seemingly by default to the public at large, but in truth it had come quite deliberately by his own design.

Another wave of pleasure snaking its way along his spine, Michael Lane's lips curled in a self-satisfied smile.

Nestled comfortably in the penthouse seat of power for the multi-trillion dollar global conglomerate, Lane looked out at Sin City itself, an unashamed corporate sinner whose biggest gamble had paid unrivalled dividends.

As he again raised his glass to take another sip of scotch, the phone on his desk began to buzz relentlessly for his attention.

Annoyed beyond patience, Lane reached over and hit the button for the speaker.

"This had better be real fucking important," he growled, gulping down the scotch.

"_Is it safe to talk_?"

Let out an irritated snort, Lane rolled his eyes in annoyance at the somewhat snivelly voice of his Chief Operations Officer, Arnold Dunmore. Lane had selected Dunmore to be his number-two man for one simple reason; Dunmore had been left so paranoid by the Justice Department's investigation he wouldn't so much as fart now without Lane's say-so.

The man was malleable enough to be controllable, competent enough to be useful, but still expendable should Lane need a patsy.

"What the hell is it, Dunmore?" sighed Lane impatiently as he set his glass down heavily on his desk. "I'm busy."

"_I just got off the phone with Alan Lerner_," said Dunmore, his voice sputtering a bit. "_He says you had legal file paperwork seeking an injunction against Colonial settlement_."

"Just a second, Dunmore," sighed Lane as he reached out to pick up the phone's handset.

As his fingers curled around the handset, Lane paused and looked down towards his lap, scowling a bit at the kneeling woman who'd just stopped fellating him.

"I didn't tell _you_ to stop," he hissed as he looked down into the woman's eyes. "You're being paid, get back to work."

Scoffing slightly at his tone, the woman nevertheless obeyed, leaning back in over his lap, her long blonde hair spilling back across his bare thighs. As the woman's lips once again slid back down over his erection, Lane lifted the phone's handset to his ear.

"Now, what were you saying, Dunmore?" said Lane impatiently.

"_Why are you having legal file a lawsuit opposing the Colonial petition for settlement_?" asked Dunmore, his voice squeaking a bit.

"Simple," replied Lane. "Aero-Tech holds exclusive contracts with the United States and several other governments to procure ships and planes for the war effort; I'm protecting our shareholders from the loss of trillions in potential dividends."

"_I'm not sure I see your point_," muttered Dunmore.

"Simple dumbass," shot back Lane. "If the Colonials get involved in this, the war could come to an end far sooner than we want it to. Moreover, if the United States military or any other government we have contracts with start using Colonial technology or ships, it will not only violate the exclusive provider clause of those contracts but also undercut their need for the ships and planes we're contracted to supply."

"_But don't you think a lawsuit is a little extreme_?" asked Dunmore. "_So far all our contracts are still in force and there's been no talk of cutting procurement programs short. In fact, if we put in a bid to assist in the reverse engineering of Colonial technology, our future profits could be even higher_."

"This isn't about just getting _a_ contract to reverse engineer the Colonial ships," countered Lane flatly. "This about making it clear to those fat bastards up on Capitol Hill as well as those bumbling assholes in Strasbourg that if the Colonials give up any of their technology, that Aero-Tech alone should be in control of it and no one else."

"_Don't you think this is a bit too heavy-handed a way of going about it, though_?" scoffed Dunmore. "_Aren't you the least bit concerned that this could backfire; Aero-Tech can't afford any more bad press_..."

"Fuck the press," snapped Lane angrily. "This is about business; I want everyone from the White House to Downing Street to bum-fuck wherever it is Egypt houses their parliament to know, we'll sue this whole damned planet into bankruptcy before we let anyone undercut our bottom line."

"_I still don't think this is such a wise move_..."

"That's right, Dunmore, you _don't_ think," snapped Lane angrily. "You aren't paid your ridiculously large salary to _think_, you are paid to do what _I_ tell you to do and what I'm telling you is this; no one but Aero-Tech is to get access to that technology if the Colonials settle on Earth."

Confident he'd verbally whipped Dunmore back into his place, Lane was about to hang the handset back up when his COO finally broke from his momentary silence.

"_And I suppose keeping any link between the Colonials and 'Project UMO' from coming to light has nothing to do with your current course of action_," muttered Dunmore evenly.

His heart skipping a beat, Lane sat upright in his seat so swiftly that the woman orally servicing him was knocked back onto her firm behind.

"How the hell do you know about..." sputtered Lane, his eyes darting about with the onset of near-panic.

"_I'll admit you did a pretty good job of purging the information from the company mainframe_," continued Dunmore, an almost audible grin creeping into his much more confident voice. "_But don't forget I was a member of Aero-Tech's IT department long before you were done puking your guts out at Harvard frat parties_."

"Yale," corrected Lane, swallowing the slight lump in his throat.

Slowly settling back into his seat, Lane couldn't help but feel the first inkling of a burgeoning respect for Dunmore.

"Okay, Dunmore, you have my attention, name your price," grinned Lane as he looked over at the woman kneeling on the floor.

"_I will, when I feel the time is right_," replied Dunmore smugly. "_For now, I'll play the part you set aside for me, I'll even back your play with the UN, so long as we have an understanding that you _aren't_ holding all the cards anymore; I'm not about to be your patsy if this whole thing goes South again_."

"Just be sure not to overplay that hand, Dunmore," offered Lane, forcing more confidence into his tone than he actually felt. "Project UMO was a done deal long before I was done puking my guts out at Yale, as you so eloquently put it."

"_True, but it was something you 'conveniently' forgot to divulge with all the other files you leaked out onto the internet_," replied Dunmore evenly. "_Public perception of Aero-Tech still being what it is, any hint of corporate subterfuge on your part would be the poison pill to your tenure as CEO_."

"Okay, Dunmore," said Lane, gritting his teeth against the civility he was forced to feign. "I think we can work with one another."

"_I thought as much_," replied Dunmore, an almost gut-churning level of self-satisfaction in his tone. "_After all, I'm pretty sure you'd have a hard finding a woman willing to give you a blowjob while you're wearing a Federal prison jumpsuit instead of Armani_."

With that, Dunmore hung up his end of the line.

Pausing, slowly lowering the handset from his ear, his pulse still a bit quickened, Lane finally set the handset back down as he took a breath.

He'd underestimated the man, no doubt about that; Dunmore had a lot more balls than Lane had been willing to give him credit. But at least for the moment, the man seemed willing to play the game as Lane wanted it be played.

But above all else, Lane knew he'd have to work out a way to cut Dunmore loose as soon as possible; if the man knew half as much as he seemed to imply about Aero-Tech's involvement in Project UMO, then Lane's tenure as CEO would indeed be short if Dunmore rolled over on him.

Indeed, from everything Lane knew about Project UMO, at least from what he'd read before frantically purging it from Aero-Tech's files, he'd thought for good, the revelation would make the Chig scandal pale by comparison.

"So are we going to finish this or what?" asked the woman impatiently, her voice cutting through Lane's ruminations like a knife; he'd literally forgotten she was still there.

His pulse quickening again, in frustration over underestimating Dunmore, in anger over the chance he might lose everything he'd just achieved, Lane looked down at the woman with an almost predatory grin.

"Oh, I'll finish this alright," he said contemptibly. "Bend over the desk."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Corridor**

Taking deep, heavy breaths, Commander Sean Kelso raced through the corridor.

The dull thud of his footfalls echoed off the bulkheads as he moved, the pounding of his pulse in rhythmic timing with each step.

Up ahead, crewmembers parted ways as the Commander made his way forward, stepping aside, some managing to do so only at the last moment.

There was no emergency…

No call to Action Stations…

The only alarm was his own sense of mounting frustration.

It had been two weeks since their formal appearance before the United Nations General Assembly and still there was no firm decision as to whether they'd be permitted to settle on Earth.

Two weeks of waiting while the United Nations Assembly continued to question and debate.

Two weeks of hovering out near Earth's moon with ships full of restless civilians and military personnel alike who simply wanted to know what their fates were to be.

While he tried to at least take some comfort from the fact that the supply convoys promised by the United Nations were still coming, at times, the slow trickle of supplies seemed taunting at times, a tantalizing promise that so much more bountiful abundance lay only a few million kilometers away down on the surface of Earth itself. But as they continued to wait, it was a promise that was quickly becoming caustic, serving merely to fan the embers of unrest amongst his huddled masses.

Like the rapid beating of his heart, the unease was pounding like a drumbeat throughout the fleet. Some had begun advocating that they simply make planetfall without permission, gamble that Earth's forces would not risk responding militarily. Still others advocated simply given up on the hollow promise of Earth, vocal in their opinion that the Colonials were better off simply taking the supplies they'd received and heading off into deep space, leaving both Earth and the war they'd stumbled into behind.

Even the nascent administration of President Paul Bess was feeling the strain, the embryonic bureaucracy fighting off scathing attacks of impotence and complacency from a populace that simply wanted to find a touch of normalcy in order to rebuild.

Hope, decidedly anemic after the Cylon attack, then stratospherically buoyed by the discovery of Earth, seemed to now be dying a crib-death.

Glancing up, sweat streaming down his forehead, Commander Sean Kelso caught a glimpse of the section marking on the bulkhead and slowed to a walk.

While he'd come a long way from the frankly borderline waistline he'd had when they'd escaped the Colonies, the Commander was nonetheless all too aware that he was still fighting the battle of the beltline. What made it worse was that ever since they'd stumbled into the middle of this conflict, he'd neglected his running routine, justified perhaps, but nevertheless an oversight he was paying for now, the aching in his muscles just a touch more acute than he'd become used to.

Slowly walking off the pain, the pounding in his chest, Commander Kelso made a conscious effort to slow his breathing. Worse still, as tired as he was, Commander Kelso was nevertheless annoyed that his frustration level hadn't been alleviated nearly as much as he'd hoped by the exercise.

Indeed, he now found himself exhausted as well as frustrated.

As he slowly wrestled control back over his breathing, Commander Kelso turned a corner and caught sight of one of the seemingly million nondescript looking hatches scattered throughout the massive Warstar. But no, this one was different, for what had once merely been one of a several dozen storage lockers had these last several months been meticulously seeded, tilled and groomed into a garden.

Grinning a bit, Kelso realized that it had been even longer since he'd been able to visit the garden and decided to see how well the budding beauty of the plot might serve to alleviate his irritation.

But while he'd hoped a visit there might serve to help him recapture even a small measure of that tiny wonder and peace he'd had when he'd first stepped in amongst the sprouting seedlings some weeks ago, as he stepped in through the hatch now, Commander Kelso's eyes were met with a sight that only served to deepen his dismay.

Whereas before the gardens had served as a hopeful focus for those amongst the crew looking to recapture a piece of what life had been like outside the cold alloy walls of a warship, drawing in literally dozens of dedicated attendants, workers and the strolling admirers, now the compartment was all but abandoned save a few scattered people.

Seized by unrestrained shock, he looked around the compartment at the rows of what had been lush, thriving seedlings, their once-vibrant greens now dulled, having taken on an almost sickly pallor, their still-budding leaves drooping from lack of care.

The garden, once a defiant symbol of faith in the face of the Cylon Holocaust, was now, like hope itself throughout the fleet, _dying_.

Even the few people who still seemed to be tending to the garden appeared as if to go about the task more out of burdensome obligation, gone from their demeanor was the care, the intangible tenderness and nurturing in their actions.

And in one last, perhaps singly the worst measure of indignity, off to one side, the Commander caught site of a few discarded cigarette butts lying in the dirt.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find you aboard a ship this damned big?" grumbled a voice from behind that sliced through the Commander's latent melancholy.

Turning around, Sean looked back to see his father slowly making his way along the wilting rows, a similar dismay at the sight etched in his features.

"This really would have broken your mother's heart," muttered Adrian Kelso as he slowly knelt down, gingerly reaching out towards the drooping leaves of one plant only to have it pop off into his fingers. "To see this garden in such a state…"

Letting out a deep, troubled sigh he let the dead leaf fall to the dirt as he stood back up.

"I had no idea it was like this," muttered Sean bitterly as he looked back out across row upon row of wilting plants. "First time I've been able to make my way back down here since this whole damned mess with Earth began, and _this_ is what I find?"

"I wish I had something I could tell you, son," sighed the elder Kelso as he continued to look around at the wilting seedlings. "People are just uncertain, I suppose, there's too much confusion."

"No, the problem is that people are expecting too damned much too quickly," countered Sean bitterly.

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Sean Kelso began lightly shaking his head at the wilting plants around the compartment.

Gods knew he'd spent countless hours speaking with President Bess, trying to puzzle through what their next course of action should be. Trouble was, the more they tried to find a solution to their situation, the more it felt as though their fates were being guided by forces utterly outside their control.

Stepping over to his son, Adrian Kelso put a firm, steadying hand on Sean's shoulder.

"Even Atlas felt the burden of carrying the worlds on his shoulders, son," began Adrian evenly. "Maybe what you need to do is step back, give the gods a chance to show you the path."

"The gods?" muttered Sean somewhat derisively. "Sorry, Dad, but I'm just not in the mood to have _this_ discussion again right now. If the gods truly gave one fraking iota about us they wouldn't have let the Cylons turn our homes to cinders."

"But the gods didn't create the Cylons; we did," countered Adrian evenly. "We built them, we taught them how to hate; we shouldn't have been surprised they learned to hate us too. The gods can help us along the path, but even they can't change a mortal's fate."

"But they could have at least asked the Fates not to slash through the threads of humanity with a weed-whacker," replied Sean contemptuously.

Taking a deep breath, Sean continued to shake his head as he again looked around at the sobering sight of the wilting seedlings.

"Come on, we need to talk," mutter Adrian simply as he gave his son's shoulder a slight tug.

"About what, exactly?" asked Sean as he looked over at his father.

"No, not here," replied Adrian evasively as he motioned with his head back over towards the exit hatch.

Nodding slightly, Commander Sean Kelso fell into step behind his father as the two of them began making their way back towards the hatch.

As they stepped back out into the corridor, Commander Kelso caught sight of two Marines making their way through the area.

"Hold up one second, Dad," muttered Sean simply. "Marines!"

At the sound of the Commander's voice, the two paused.

"Sir?"

Stepping up to them, the Commander gave the two a quick once over.

"What's your name?" asked the Commander simply.

"Bowman, Corporal Bowman, Commander," replied the Marine simply.

"And you?"

"Lenore, sir, Corporal Sera Lenore, Commander," replied the second Marine evenly.

"Are you two off duty?"

For a moment, the two of them exchanged a slightly apprehensive look at one another, and it was then that Kelso remembered that they were the ones he'd caught mid-foreplay some weeks ago. For a moment, he wondered if he'd caught them in the middle of searching for a location for yet another tryst. No matter.

"We were just on our way back to the berthing area, sir," replied Corporal Lenore simply, her face flushing ever so slightly.

"Good," replied Commander Kelso simply. "When you get back there, pass on to Captain Gaines, I want a detail to report back down here to the garden ASAP. No one is to be pulled from other posts, but I want as many Marines as she can scrape together to go to each garden and lend a hand getting them back into shape, understood?"

"Aye, sir," replied both Marines simply.

"Carry on," said Kelso simply as he waved both Marine on their way.

With that, Commander Kelso stepped back over to his father, the two of them continuing off down along the corridor.

* * *

><p>"Do you think he recognized us?" muttered Lenore as she glanced back over her shoulder at the Commander heading off the opposite direction.<p>

"Over four thousand people aboard right now, you and I are about the only ones who've really given him a reason to remember our faces," replied Bowman with a wry grin.

"How quickly do you think he wanted us to pass along that order to Captain Gaines?" asked Lenore simply as she again glanced over her shoulder and saw that the Commander was now no longer in sight.

"From his tone, I'd guess he wants it done immediately, why?"

With that, Lenore reached over and grabbed hold of Bowman's arm and motioned her head towards one of the empty arms lockers.

Glancing back off along the corridor, Bowman saw no one, then grinned back over at Lenore.

"Maybe we can spare just a couple minutes," he sighed as he pressed his body up against hers.

"Better be more than just a few minutes," purred Lenore, grinning as she pressed herself up against Bowman

Their lips locking in a passionate kiss, Lenore nevertheless managed to reach over and quickly tap in the access code to unlock the hatch. A moment later, the two slipped inside, unseen.

* * *

><p>"So you actually caught them in the act?" chuckled Adrian, his face wide with a bemused grin. "What did Captain Gaines say when you told her?"<p>

"Not much, actually," replied Sean Kelso with a slight shrug. "Apparently she already knew the two of them were…"

"Affirming life?" offered Adrian somewhat coyly.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose," replied Sean simply as the two of them rounded the last corridor leading to his quarters. "I gather from her they've been 'affirming life' a lot since they got aboard _Galactica_."

"I see you found him," called a voice as the two of them stepped closer to the Commander's quarters.

"Mister President," said Commander Sean Kelso simply as he caught site of President Bess leaning against the bulkhead beside the hatch to his quarters. "I'm sorry, no one advised me you were coming aboard."

"Well, I didn't exactly want to announce my presence," replied Bess simply as he extended his hand to Commander Kelso. "Wanted to keep this visit a bit informal."

Giving the President's hand a quick shake, Sean glanced over at his father, the expression on the elder Kelso's face indicating he was not in an way as surprised as his son was at President Bess' presence.

Without a word, Commander Kelso simply shrugged off this observation as the Marine posted there opened the hatch to his quarters.

Stepping inside, his father and President Bess close behind, the Commander made his way over to his austere desk, snatched up the towel he'd left there, and wiped away the last beads of perspiration that were clinging to his face and neck.

"Okay, so, the two of you here, informally of course, I take it this isn't just a coincidence," sighed the Commander as he looked back over at the two men.

"Hardly," sighed Adrian simply as he motioned towards the bottom drawer of his son's desk. "Informal or not, aren't you at least going to offer us a drink?"

Grinning slightly, Commander Kelso tossed down the towel onto the desk top, dropped down into his seat then slid open the bottom drawer. Within moments, he produced three small shot glasses and a bottle of amber-colored liquor.

Reaching over, Adrian Kelso picked up the bottle, looking it over with an appraising eye.

"This isn't from the Colonies," muttered Adrian evenly as he noted the unintelligible label on the bottle.

"If you can find an untapped bottle of ambrosia left in the fleet, let me know," sighed Commander Kelso evenly as he took the bottle back, opened it, and poured three neat shots. "No, I guess you can say this is a local blend; the commander of the Earth fleet, Ross, he snuck me a couple bottles with the last supply run as a token of his gratitude."

"What's it called?" asked President Bess as he held the shot glass up to his nose gently sniffed the aroma.

"Rum," replied Commander Kelso simply, using the actual Earth word as he held his glass up. "To tall ships."

Likewise holding their glasses up to the toast, the three men then down their shots, Adrian Kelso coughing slightly as the potent liquor made its way down his throat.

"That's pretty good stuff," grinned Bess as he looked at his empty glass. "Any chance of another shot?"

Reaching over with the bottle, Commander Kelso gently poured another neat shot for the President. With full glass in hand, President Bess quickly threw back the second shot.

As he slowly lowered himself into his seat behind the desk, Commander Kelso left the bottle out as he watched his father and the President sit down in the chairs opposite of him.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of the presence of the two most important men in our fleet?" asked Commander Kelso evenly as he slowly leaned back in his seat.

As President Bess set his empty glass down onto the desktop, he glanced over at Adrian Kelso, who for his part merely sat looking down into his own empty glass.

"I presume you haven't heard anything from the United Nations regarding our petition," began President Bess evenly as he settled back into his own seat.

"Mister President, if I had any word, I assure you…" began Commander Kelso evenly.

"Sean, you can dispense with the formalities," replied Bess, waving his hands slightly as he leaned in towards Kelso's desk. "All the pomp and circumstance is for the benefit of the public, right now I'm not here as the 'President of the Colonies', I'm here to talk to you candidly."

"No, sir, I haven't heard anything," sighed Sean heavily, running a hand back through his sweat-slickened hair. "They keep asking questions, keep trickling us supplies, but no there's still no word on whether they'll let us stay or ask us to pack up our troubles and move along."

"I assume I don't have to tell you that tensions are running pretty high throughout the fleet right now," continued Bess.

"Hardly," snorted the Commander as he gently leaned back in his seat, casting his eyes up towards the ceiling. "Every time a supply run arrives, I have to post Marines out to the other ships just to deter people from thinking about trying to commandeer a transport planetside."

"We'll have to be careful with that approach, if tensions continue to rise things could turn ugly fast," replied Bess evenly. "We can't afford to risk the chaos that would result if your Marines shoot into a civilian crowd."

"With six reported incidents of people trying to stow away on an Earth ship, one near-riot and no fully organized civilian police force to speak of, frankly, Mister President, I think my Marines have shown a considerable level of restraint," countered Commander Kelso defensively as he looked back over at Bess coolly.

Taking a deep breath, Bess sat there for a moment, then simply nodded in concession.

"The men and women under your command have acted with an immeasurable level of professionalism, Commander," began Bess, sighing heavily as he shifted in his seat somewhat. "Believe me, they have my sincerest respect and appreciation. Frankly, it's my own people we should consider keel-hauling for their behavior."

With a slight grunt of mild disgust, Bess seemed to give up on trying to get comfortable and stood up from his seat, setting off on a small circuit around the Commander's simple quarters.

"As you've pointed out, we can't even organize a basic police force," continued Bess, his tone laced with frustration as he slowly paced around the room. "And, why? Lack of candidates, no; lack of need, certainly not. Our problems and challenges are many and growing, our solutions woefully few, and the ethically bankrupt individuals who seem to have weaseled their way into my government seem more concerned with carving out niches for themselves than actually doing the work of the people Fraking bureaucratic mentality seems to be only true constant of the universe."

"With respect, Mister President, the people need a strong leader who can wrangle those bureaucrats," began Commander Kelso evenly. "That's why they elected you in what was, let's face it, a landslide victory. Our people need something…"

"Our people need _hope_," interjected Adrian Kelso flatly. "At first they were coasting along on autopilot, too much in shock from having survived the Cylon attack to do much else, but now they've had time to truly digest the magnitude of what we're facing; they need a reason to persevere."

"And Earth has become that hope," continued Bess. "Trouble is that with each passing day, it seems more and more a forlorn hope."

"No, Earth simply became a lightning rod for what our people are struggling with, a chance encounter none of us could have anticipated," countered Adrian evenly. "Hell, we weren't even looking for the damned thing; the Fates simply dropped it at our feet like a dog with a ball."

"And now that big blue 'ball' hangs out there, taunting us, taunting our people," added Commander Kelso somewhat bitterly. "So close, and yet just out of reach. Almost wish we'd never found Earth at all."

As those words hung over the three of them, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

"Well, we _have_ found it," sighed Adrian finally. "Now the question is what are _we_ going to do about it?"

"Not much we can do, Dad," replied Commander Kelso flatly. "The UN has ordered us to hold out here and wait."

"Still, the fact remains, we need someone to speak to the people, let them know we are doing everything possible to resolve this situation," said Bess as he turned back to look over at Commander Kelso.

As he noted that the President's attention had quite clearly settled upon him, Commander Kelso let out slight scoff.

"What, _me_?" he chuckled. "What more can I tell the people that isn't already being passed down from you?"

"Maybe it's not what they need to hear as much as it is who they hear it from, Commander," replied Bess evenly. "No matter how earnest or truthful the answer, there will always be those who question that answer for no other reason than who it is they hear it from."

Taking a deep breath, Bess made his way back over to his seat and slowly lowered himself back down into it.

"Now, I appreciate the strides you've taken to throw your weight behind the legitimacy of my government, but as you said yourself, this situation needs strong leadership. I think it's time the people heard from the one man who even the most die-hard conspiracy nut out there would have to agree still holds almost universal respect within this fleet; you."

"We organized a government, a _civilian_ government specifically for the purpose of giving the people a voice," countered Commander Kelso as he looked across at President Bess. "What possible good could come from me taking an action that might be seen by some as a prelude to a military dictatorship?"

"Facts are facts, Commander," replied Bess flatly. "I can get on the wireless and spout as many pretty speeches as my staff can feverishly pencil together, but the plain, hard truth is that you are the one the people trust because you are still outside that system."

At that, Commander Kelso let go with a slightly cynical chuckle.

"So let me see if I understand you correctly, Mister President," continued Commander Kelso, a slight chuckle still in his voice. "Are you asking me to bypass your duly elected government? There are a hell of a lot of people, your ministers included, who might view that as sedition."

"No, I'm asking you to talk to the people," countered Bess flatly. "Try as I might, right now, I can't call for calm and patience with near the level of legitimacy you can while my own ministers squabble with one another over some half-ass notions of jurisdictional authority."

"And your ministers, don't you think there'll be some ruffled feathers from this kind of oratory coup?"

With a coy smile creeping onto his lips, Bess settled back into his seat.

"Frankly, I'd be ecstatic if there were," he said simply. "Maybe if they think the military _is_ poised to assert direct control they'll get off their collective fat assess and begin doing what they were elected to do."

"Prod them into action by stoking their paranoia?" chuckled Commander Kelso as he shook his head lightly. "Pretty savvy if you don't mind me saying so, Mister President. But what am I supposed to say exactly?"

"Just tell the people the truth," replied President Bess flatly. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"But whatever you decide to tell them, tell them soon," continued Adrian Kelso somewhat solemnly. "Fears and frustrations are things that don't suffer bureaucracy well; people out there need a reason to trust again, more importantly they need a reason to hope."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

His eyes locked on the DRADIS screens overhead, Commander Sean Kelso continued to mull over the conversation he'd had with President Bess and his father the night before.

They'd assembled a civilian government in order to give the people a voice, to have an authority that was meant to stand before them and offer calm, to answer the hard questions still being asked by a huddled mass of humanity that longed for nothing more than a real, concrete chance to rebuild.

And in one short conversation, the President of the Colonies had asked him to push aside that authority, if only for a moment, to try and placate a people who were becoming weary of waiting for their lives to start anew.

Ever since being saddled with the responsibility of protecting the men and women in this fleet, Commander Sean Kelso had worked to remove himself from that position of being the lone authority. There were the altruistic motives behind that endeavor; the perpetuation of their republic, the removal of the temptation to act as a dictator. But he also knew there were other reasons, simpler ones; quite plainly, he didn't want to be solely responsible for fifty thousand lives.

Commanding a warship was one thing; being the lone guardian and decision maker for the whole of what remained of Colonial society was quite another.

But try as he might to shift the overall responsibility onto President Bess' nascent administration, it now seemed apparent that those attempts weren't bearing much fruit.

Taking a deep breath, Commander Sean Kelso looked across the CIC as the entry hatch opened, allowing Major Burke to enter.

From the expression on her face, it seemed his XO was somewhat surprised to see the Commander already on duty. It was an honest enough reaction considering he'd relieved the midwatch officer nearly an hour early; although his run the night before had been exhausting, the Commander had nevertheless had a fitful night's sleep.

"Good morning, Commander," began Major Burke as she stepped up to the main plot table beneath the DRADIS displays. "Didn't expect to find you in CIC this early; is there a problem?"

"Just had some trouble sleeping last night," replied Kelso evenly as he cast his eyes back to the screens overhead. "Figured I'd take the opportunity to get a jump on the day."

"Any news from the midwatch?" asked Burke as she too looked up to the screens overhead.

"Some minor housekeeping," replied Kelso somewhat dismissively. "The _Virgon Sojourner_ made a request to bump-up their slot to tank off our water supply, that's about all."

"Rumor has it that President Bess came aboard last night," muttered Burke as she began flipping through the mid-watch reports attached to a clipboard. "Any news?"

"No, not really," sighed Commander Kelso.

Nodding her head slightly, Major Burke returned her attention to the reports.

"Another supply run from Earth is due this morning," began Burke evenly as she set the mid-watch reports back down. "Transmitted manifest shows some donated clothing items are included, might help with the morale amongst the civvies."

"Second hand skivvies?" muttered Kelso somewhat dubiously. "If only that was all it took to quell the troubles we're having."

Just then, the DRADIS display overhead let out a low alarm.

"Speak of Hades, that looks like them now, Commander," said Burke as nearly two dozen ships appeared on the display. "Running a little light though, that's half the normal number of transports they've been sending."

As he watched the ships continue their ascent from Earth orbit, Commander Kelso let out a long sigh.

"Major, go ahead and rouse the Fast Teams," said the Commander evenly as he watched the ships continue to close in. "Better to have our Marines already in place when those ships arrive."

"Aye, Commander," replied Burke dutifully as she snatched up the handset on her side of the plot table. "Do we know which ships they're heading to today?"

"I already contacted the LSO and the other ships in the fleet," began Kelso as he watched the ships continue their way towards his fleet. "I brought it up with the President last night and he agrees that all supply runs should be routed through _Galactica_ alone from now on; cuts down on contact between our civilians and the Earth crews that way, might help quell some of the unrest."

"Understood, sir," replied Major Burke simply as she raised her handset to her ear.

As the Major relayed the order, Petty Officer Dupree, the mid-watch Comm operator stepped over to the main plot table.

"Sir, this just came in over the wireless for you," stated Dupree simply as he handed the Commander a short printout.

Taking the printout in hand, the Commander quickly scanned over the short length of text.

"Trouble, sir?" asked Burke as she hung up her handset.

"Looks like some sort of special envoy is coming aboard with this supply run," replied Commander Kelso as he looked back up at the closing ships on DRADIS. "It says their business is urgent, but doesn't elaborate about who's coming aboard or what that business is."

"Shall I contact _Colonial One_, see if President Bess is available to come over as well?" asked Burke evenly as she glanced up at the contacts on DRADIS.

Letting out a long sigh, Kelso simply nodded at Dupree as he too cast his attention back to the screens overhead.

"Not yet, Major," sighed Kelso as he gently played with the printout in his hand. "The President has a meeting set for this morning with his ministers, no need to give him more of a headache than he's already going to have."

"Understood."

Glancing down at the printout, Kelso grimaced slightly as he tried to divine the meaning behind it.

"I'm going to the hangar deck, see if I can find out what this envoy is about," said Kelso simply as he let the communiqué fall onto the top of the plot table. "You have the conn, Major."

* * *

><p>By the time Commander Kelso reached the hangar deck, the first of the Earth supply ships had landed, a veritable army of <em>Galactica<em> deck hands working to unload and stage the provisions for inventory and distribution to the rest of the fleet.

Amid the normal choreographed chaos of Raptors and Vipers being prepared for CAP duties, others being shuffled about into service bays for repairs and maintenance and all the associated noise of tools and shouting personnel, there was now the added element of forklifts moving the boxes and crates being unloaded from the disconnected cargo modules from the Earth convoy.

Although the convoy aircraft themselves were able to be brought down on some of the larger aircraft lifts, it had been found to be simply easier to maneuver the detachable cargo modules themselves around amid the bustle of the hangar deck.

While _Galactica_'s knuckle-draggers continued to unload the two modules already in the bay, a third was already being brought down from the flight deck as Commander Kelso made his way through the activity. As he continued to make his way towards the area where the modules were being staged, Commander Kelso caught sight of Chief Copeland as she stood with two individuals, one male, one female, both Earth military from the look of their uniforms.

Glancing up, Chief Copeland caught sight of the Commander and quickly motioned him over.

As he stepped up to the trio, Copeland held up a small object.

"What have you got, Chief?" asked Kelso as he looked at the device in her hand.

"Looks like our Earth friends have a new toy for us, Commander," began Copeland as she handed both the object and what appeared to be a small ear device to Kelso.

"What are they, Chief?" asked Kelso as he took hold of the objects, itself not much larger than a man's wallet.

"New language translator device, sir," replied Chief Copeland as she motioned first to the earpiece she'd handed him then to a similar one seated over her own right ear.

Instantly intrigued, Commander Kelso gently slipped the ear piece in his hand onto his right ear. At first, nothing seemed to happen as Kelso stood looking somewhat blankly at the device in his hand. Apparently picking up on the Commander's confusion, the man in an Earth military uniform casually reached over and toggled a small switch on one end of the device. Instantly, the small imbedded screen flashed to life, the image of what appeared to be a stylistically rendered apple with a bite taken out of it quickly being replaced by a simple split menu.

On one side of the screen was a list of words Commander Kelso did not recognize, but on the opposite side was a list clearly in modern Colonial standard.

Language Select, Volume, Backlight, Brightness, Preferences, Reset Settings…

"Can you hear us now, sir?" uttered a voice from the earpiece.

Looking up from the device in his hand, Commander Kelso looked over at man in the Earth military uniform as he spoke again.

"Is the device working now, sir?" asked the translated voice in his ear again.

Unlike the cold, sterile computerized voice from the translator computer setups used by the _Saratoga_ or the one used during their appearance before the United Nations Assembly, this time there was a more natural conversational tone to the translated voice coming from the earpiece, smooth enunciation and male in tone.

"Certainly sounds like its working," grinned Kelso as he looked back down at the device in his hand. "Are you hearing me as well?"

"Yes, sir, we are," replied the man, a grin likewise spreading across his face as he extended a hand. "Captain Jim Krantz, this is Lieutenant Melissa Stroud."

With that, the woman beside Krantz likewise extended her hand to Kelso.

"It's a please to meet you, Commander," she said, the translation coming through the earpiece, quite surprisingly, in a female voice this time.

"That's fantastic," muttered Commander Kelso, grinning as he again looked down at the device in his hand. "The voice just changed to a woman's voice when you talked."

"Yes, sir," smiled Stroud as she absently held up a similar device. "The processor doesn't just analyze words, it also actively scans the tenor and stress patterns of the speaker's voice and translates them as well, makes it easier to distinguish _who_ is speaking as well as vocal moods or emphasis, makes it more user friendly."

"Really?" muttered the Commander, intentionally placing added emphasis in the tone of his voice.

"We just got these fresh from the manufacturer this morning, Commander," continued Captain Krantz, chuckling a bit. "We're hoping to have several thousand units ready for distribution by the end of the month."

"Well, thank the gods," smiled Kelso as he looked over at Chief Copeland. "I was worried we were condemned to listening to a gods-awful computerized voice; always sounded a little too much like a Cylon for my liking."

While both Krantz and Stroud nodded, a moment after the word left his mouth, Kelso wondered whether either of the Earth military officers had been briefed on what a 'Cylon' was.

"If you'll let me, sir," began Krantz as he held up his own translator device and began pointing at several features on it. "As you can see on the screen, the menu is set for American English on this side and your language on the other."

Paying rapt attention, both Commander Kelso and Chief Copeland listened intently as Krantz continued to explain the features and functions of the device.

Touchpad scrolling and selection, multi-language concurrent translation, wireless interlinking of multiple devices, wireless signal security encryption protocols…

As an engineer, Commander Kelso had to admit he was impressed not only by how many features the device had but also by how compact it was.

"My complements on the craftsmanship," smiled Kelso as he absently scrolled through the settings menu and played with a few non-vital features. "Not only is it compact, you even managed to make it look stylish."

"If the Commander would prefer, we do also have some with either a black or a white faceplate," offered Lieutenant Stroud, grinning slightly. "We may even have a few blue ones…"

"No, silver is just fine," chuckled Kelso as he looked back over at Krantz. "Am I allowed to keep this?"

"Absolutely, sir," replied Captain Krantz simply as he held up another device. "I just need your signature and a thumb print scan to account for it."

"I take it this isn't cheap then?" smiled Kelso as he took the offered stylus and scribbled out his signature on the line on the touch screen then placed his right thumb over a small print scan window.

"Just expensive enough that Uncle Sam wants us to account for each and everyone, sir," replied Krantz as he quickly scanned the barcode on the back of the device in Kelso's hand.

"Uncle Sam?" muttered Chief Copeland quizzically.

"Sorry, a colloquialism," replied Stroud evenly as Krantz handed the signature device over to Chief Copeland. "It's an informal slang name used to refer to the United States government."

"One of the nation-states on Earth," offered Commander Kelso as he noted the confusion still evident on Chief Copeland's face. "Something like a provincial government on the Colonies."

"Oh," muttered Copeland simply as she signed her signature and then scanned her thumb print into the device in Krantz's hand.

"Just how complete are the translations?" asked Kelso simply as he looked back over at Krantz and Stroud.

"There's bound to be problems, but most will likely be idioms or cultural references," replied Stroud evenly. "Units of measurement might present problems too, but the dictionaries can be expanded as we run into those limitations."

"Better watch out, Chief," muttered Commander Kelso as he glanced over at Copeland. "As many expletives as you use with your knuckle-draggers, you might fry out the processor."

"Don't need a translator with these apes, Commander," replied Copeland with a smile as she motioned over at the myriad of crewmembers working around the hangar bay. "I find that 'get your fraking ass in gear' can usually be conveyed by tone of voice alone."

"Uh," began Stroud, pausing for a second to let out a weak chuckle. "For the record, if 'fraking' is an expletive referring to the sexual act, then the translation seems to be working well so far."

With that, Commander Kelso let out another laugh as Chief Copeland's face flushed a bit.

"Sorry," she muttered weakly. "I'll try and mind my manners while using this."

"No worries," replied Stroud simply. "Political correctness aside, it's hard to be a Marine without hearing a curse word now and again."

"I don't suppose you have any extras," began Commander Kelso as he looked over to Strauss and Krantz. "I'd like Major Macedo, my computer specialist, to have a look, see if there's a way we can integrate this into our communications system somehow."

"We brought aboard two hundred of the devices, Commander," replied Krantz evenly. "We were supposed to distribute them to your senior officers and political officials, but I'm sure one can be spared, just need to make sure it's accounted for."

With that Krantz again held up the signature device.

"We can also see about putting the manufacturer in contact with, Major Macedo was it?" continued Stroud, pausing to see if she'd heard the name correctly, her questioning tone, properly translated, eliciting a slight nod from Kelso. "They hold patents on some of the technology, but I'm sure something can be arranged."

"I'd appreciate it," said Commander Kelso evenly as he looked over at the two Earth officers. "Now, was this the 'urgent business' mentioned in the convoy's communiqué?"

At that, both Krantz and Stroud exchanged a glance with one another.

"Part of it, but not the primary thing, sir," replied Krantz evenly.

"I don't suppose you'd be able to enlighten me on what is then?"

Before either of them answered, _Galactica_'s deck gang began moving a fourth container off the dropship lift into the hangar bay.

"That's them," muttered Stroud to Krantz as she pointed over at the fourth container.

"If you'll follow me, Commander," said Krantz as he started off across the hangar bay towards the container, Stroud, Commander Kelso and Chief Copeland very quickly turning to follow.

"Would it be possible for your crew to step back for a moment?" asked Krantz evenly as the deck gang settled the fourth container down into place near one of the unused maintenance bays.

"It's not going to blow up or anything, right?" asked Chief Copeland lightly.

"No," replied Stroud, chuckling slightly. "But there is some 'sensitive' cargo aboard."

"Chief?" muttered Kelso simply as he pointed over at the crew tending to the container.

As Chief Copeland stepped over to more or less shoo her people away, Commander Kelso continued to follow Krantz and Stroud as they approached the container, admittedly curious about what was in the container, but nevertheless somewhat annoyed by how secretive both of the Earth officers were apparently being.

As _Galactica_'s deck gang dutifully stepped away from the container, seemingly content to shift their attention to a fifth container being brought down into the hangar bay, Captain Krantz stepped up to the entry hatch on the fourth container and quickly tapped a few keys on a keypad next to the hatch, a keypad which was conspicuously not installed on the other containers already in the hangar bay.

With a mechanical thud and a hiss of air, the hatch slid away, Captain Krantz immediately poking his head inside.

"Welcome aboard, sir…" began Krantz, his voice pausing as Kelso heard another voice reply from inside the container, this one not being translated through the earpiece. "No, sir, we actually didn't have too, he's already here…yes, sir he has a translator."

Curious as to whom it was Krantz was speaking to, Commander Kelso glanced over at Stroud, trying to divine from her unaccommodatingly blank expression the answers to the questions bouncing around in his mind.

"Permission to come aboard, Commander?" asked a different male voice coming in over Kelso's earpiece as Krantz stepped back away from the hatch.

"I'd like to know who it is I'm allowing aboard before I grant that permission," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he peered in through the hatch, the low-light inside making it difficult to discern anything.

A moment later, Commander Kelso was genuinely surprised when Glen van Ross stepped into view, a translator earpiece in place over his right ear.

"Permission granted, Commodore Ross," said Kelso simply, a grin spreading across his face as he extended a hand to the man.

"Admiral now, actually," replied Ross as he clasped a hold of Kelso's hand, a grin likewise on his face as he stepped down from the hatch.

"I suppose a promotion was definitely due considering what your fleet went through in getting home," said Kelso simply as he shook Ross' hand. "You officially out rank me now."

"Gladly trade it to you for this ship of yours," said Admiral Ross, smirking slightly as he looked around the hangar bay.

"Sorry, can't do it, I've gotten kind of attached to her," replied Kelso lightly. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"Before I go into that, Commander, I'd like to introduce you to someone," began Ross as another man stepped into view in the hatch. "This is General Oliver Ranford, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the United States Armed Forces."

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" asked Ranford as he looked first to Commander Kelso, then around at the flurry of activity taking place around the hangar bay.

"Permission granted, General," replied Kelso, not entirely understanding the full implications of the man's title, but nevertheless feeling decidedly outranked as he again extended his hand to Ranford. "Commander Sean Kelso, Commanding Officer of the Colonial Warstar _Galactica_."

"Thank you, sir," replied Ranford evenly as he stepped down out of the hatch and gave Commander Kelso a firm, brief handshake before he resumed gawking at the surrounding hangar bay. "Damn, she _is_ a big ship, Glen."

"Simple pictures and LIDAR scans don't due her justice, sir," grinned Admiral Ross as he too looked around the hangar bay. "I see your people are busy unloading the supplies."

"I won't deny it would be nicer if there were more coming in," sighed Commander Kelso as he too looked back over at the deck gang moving the boxes and crates from the other containers around. "But, I'm not about to complain over what you've been able to get to us either; we can certainly use anything we can get, especially for the civilians."

"Well hopefully the logistics boys will be able to get their collective asses in gear soon, get more up to you," stated General Ranford evenly as he looked out along the line of Vipers and Raptors being serviced. "But, undersupplied or not, Commander Kelso, you have an _impressive_ vessel."

"Thank you, General," replied Commander Kelso proudly. "But forgive for saying so, I doubt you two gentlemen came aboard for a simple tour."

"No, Commander, not this time, I'm afraid," sighed General Ranford, his tone losing some of its wonderment. "Is there someplace we can speak in private?"

"Of course, sir, if you'll follow me this way," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he motioned both Ross and Ranford towards an egress hatch nearby. "Chief Copeland?"

"Sir?"

"Contact Major Burke in CIC and let her know that I will be in my quarters."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p>As he made his way around to the seat behind his admittedly utilitarian desk, Commander Kelso bid both Admiral Ross and General Ranford to sit in the two equally utilitarian seats set in front of it.<p>

"I'm sorry they're not more comfortable, gentlemen," said Commander Kelso as both Ross and Ranford lowered themselves into the chairs.

"No need to apologize, Commander," replied Ranford evenly as he shifted a bit in the less-than-plush seat. "I've read the dossier you submitted to the United Nations, so I understand that you escaped from your homeworlds with relatively few luxuries."

"Well, we're alive, and that is what counts in the end," replied Commander Kelso.

"General, maybe we should look into including some more comfortable furniture and some sundries with future supply runs," offered Admiral Ross as he too shifted a bit in his seat.

"I'll see to it," replied General Ranford, a forced grin on his face as he paused, looking somewhat hesitantly across to Commander Kelso.

Noting the pause, Commander Kelso glanced from Ranford over to Ross, then back at the General, likewise forcing a grin onto his face amid the uncomfortable pause.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," began Kelso, pausing to gauge the expressions on the faces of the two men in front of him, wondering for a moment whether his statement had been too idiomatic for proper translation. "You're here to ask me something, something very important, but you're not quite sure how to broach the subject."

"Is it that obvious?" smiled Ranford.

"Just a bit," replied Kelso simply, letting out a sigh as he leaned back in his seat. "I've already said as much to Admiral Ross, but just so you know as well, General, I'm not big on either protocol or politics, so if you gentlemen have something you need to speak with me about, please, just come right out with it and we'll pick up the pieces from there."

"Well, Commander Kelso, I've only just met you, but if you really are as forthright as you seem, I think I'm going to like you," said General Ranford, his demeanor relaxing a bit as he too settled back somewhat into his seat. "First off I guess I should be just as forthright with you; yes we are here with a request, at least unofficially."

"Then since this is an 'unofficial visit', can I offer either of you gentlemen a drink?" asked Kelso as he reached for the bottom drawer of his desk.

"Please," replied General Ranford simply.

Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, Kelso withdrew one of the bottles of rum Ross had more-or-less smuggled to him in one of the earlier supply runs, making a show of presenting the label to Ross and Ranford, the two men grinning a bit as the Commander likewise produced three shot glasses.

Pulling the stopper from the bottle, Kelso quickly poured out three neat shots of the amber liquor. Setting the bottle down on the desk, Kelso then slid two of the glasses towards Ross and Ranford, the two men retrieving them as Kelso lifted his own glass.

"To stout ships, clear seas, and far-off coasts in stormy weather," said Kelso as he held his glass high.

At that, Ranford and Ross both gave a slight nod before all three quickly downed their shots.

"By your toast, can I assume your civilization had a strong naval tradition?" asked General Ranford as he gently set his empty shot glass back down on Kelso's desk.

"On Picon, most especially," nodded Kelso as he slowly placed the stopper back on the bottle of rum. "And since out fleet headquarters was based there, that tradition did permeate throughout the fleet, an adopted heritage of sorts for me I suppose."

"Traditions can be important," noted Ranford. "The ties that bind, the common ground between peoples, it can be a powerfully unifying force in times of difficulty."

"And I presume it's that 'common ground' you are here to explore," said Commander Kelso as he looked over at the General. "I notice your uniform is different from Admiral Ross', mind if I ask what the significance of that is?"

"Admiral Ross is a member of the United States Navy," replied Ranford evenly. "I'm a United States Marine, part of a separate branch of our nation's armed forces."

"A Marine," muttered Kelso, mulling the tidbit over in his mind for a moment. "Okay, so if I keep piecing this puzzle together, Admiral Ross is here because he and I have already formed somewhat of a rapport. You, as a both a senior member of the hierarchy of your military, as well as a member of what I presume, similar to our own Marines, is a primarily ground combat oriented force, hard fighters, I'm guessing whatever you are here to discuss, it's a very delicate and potentially dangerous issue."

As Admiral Ross smirked slightly, General Ranford let out a long sigh.

"If I didn't know better, Commander, I'd think you were somehow reading my mind," smiled Ranford.

"Most of my career before taking command of _Galactica_ was spent as an engineer," shrugged Kelso, a slightly self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. "Attention to detail and pragmatic assessment are the tools of my trade. So gentlemen, to what do I owe the honor of your 'unofficial' presence?"

"We're here to talk about a very sensitive matter," replied General Ranford flatly. "Now, it could take some time for the United Nations to come to a decision regarding your people's application for asylum."

"Bureaucracy seems to be a universal constant," smirked Kelso as he let out a long sigh. "No matter where you go, there it is. But are you sure you shouldn't be discussing this with President Bess?"

"No, this is something we felt would be better to discuss this with you first," replied Admiral Ross as he leaned forward a bit. "You are after all the overall commander of your military forces."

"If you're worried that I might attempt to use military force to compel your governments into allowing my people to settle on Earth, let me assure you…" began Kelso, his voice trailing off as he heard General Ranford began to chuckle a bit.

"While there are some down on the surface who've expressed concerns about that possibility, I personally do not share in those frankly paranoid points of view," replied Ranford, his chuckle fading away as he casually set his cover down on the deck beside his seat. "I've spoken with Admiral Ross at great length because his opinion is one in which I place great trust. I wouldn't be here if he hadn't been able to convince me of your sincerity. No, I'm afraid we're here because of far more urgent and dangerous concerns, ones I feel we can't afford to postpone till the politicians make up their minds."

"What kind of concerns?" asked Kelso pointedly as he leaned forward onto his desk.

"As you may recall, Commander, prior to rendezvousing with us at Banū Mūsā, Commodore Cassel's fleet took three Chig pilots prisoner," began Admiral Ross as he shifted somewhat in his seat.

"I remember," replied Kelso evenly. "As I recall, those were the prisoners who informed your intelligence officers that the Silicates had overthrown the Chig military authority."

"That's correct," nodded Ranford as he too leaned forward a bit in his seat. "And that's also the problem; the Silicates wouldn't have made such an astonishing move unless they had an even more extraordinary and potentially catastrophic goal in mind."

"I thought the prisoners told you the coup was carried out to prevent the Chig military from surrendering."

"No, there's another reason bouncing around in those faulty hard-drives the Silicates pretend to think with," replied Ranford evenly as he slowly stood up from his seat and took a few impatient steps around the room. "If their sole intention in seizing control was to prevent the Chigs from giving up the war, they've done a miserable job of pursuing that goal."

"How so?" asked Kelso pointedly as he watched Ranford pace around his seat.

"Although the enemy was able to oust us from their territory, the sheer reckless ferocity with which they did so meant they exercised absolutely no economy of force," answered Ranford as he paused long enough to look back over at Commander Kelso. "All of our latest intelligence reports are quite adamant; the fleet which struck at Earth, the fleet your vessel was instrumental in defeating, was the last effective offensive combat force the Chigs had left."

"They've bled themselves dry, Commander Kelso," interjected Admiral Ross evenly. "The Chig fleet has effectively ceased to exist."

Taking a deep breath, Kelso slowly leaned back away from his desk as he digested what Ross had just said.

"As heartening as that news should be, you gentlemen don't seem to be taking much comfort from it," said Kelso as he continued to watch both men, the two of them clearly still discomforted.

"Although their mobile fleet has been removed as a threat, the enemy still possesses a significant and potent ability to defend the territory they hold," sighed Ranford as he took a few more pensive steps. "Large infantry garrisons, orbital defense networks, ground-based fighters and bombers, it will take a lot of hard work and blood to crack that shell back open."

"In spite of the losses we suffered when we were expelled from enemy territory, the world economy is now firmly on a war-footing," continued Ross as he glanced back over his shoulder at the pacing Ranford. "Several new ships are nearing completion, new aircraft production is proceeding at a prodigious rate, and troops are being trained in the millions. IFOR command is confident we'll have forces to embark on a new offensive in as little as six months…"

"Do you know what a see-saw is, Commander Kelso?" interjected Ranford flatly. "Did they have them on the Twelve Colonies?"

"For all the differences our civilizations would seem to have at first glance, General, more and more commonalities seem to be bubbling to the surface," chuckled Kelso. "Yeah, we had see-saws back on the Colonies."

"Well the more and more I look at this, the more it feels like a see-saw," continued Ranford as he leaned in over the back of his empty chair. "The Chigs eviscerated themselves driving our forces from their space, but in six months time, the stockpile of men and materiel Earth has spent the last two years pulling together will soon be thrown headlong into a campaign to storm back over their remaining defenses."

"Space is nothing if not vast, General," offered Commander Kelso. "Isn't it possible for your forces to bypass some of those defenses?"

Taking a deep breath, Ranford's head dipped a bit.

"Some perhaps, but not all of them," said Ranford, his voice heavy. "Even without a mobile fleet to oppose us, a good number of enemy fighters and bombers based on planets in their territory have sufficient range to hit us as we move by, we're still looking at having to punch a corridor through to the Chig homeworld, and that means taking back any planets in range of striking that corridor. Our most optimistic projections for such a campaign indicate our casualties force-wide could still reach as high as sixty or seventy percent."

"Hence the see-saw," muttered Kelso thoughtfully. "You're concerned that by the time your forces manage to wend their way through the enemy meat-grinder, it will be a pyrrhic victory at best, at worst, the enemy will have had enough time to reconstitute their forces and be in a position to once more force an ouster."

"Back and forth, time and again; I can't stomach the idea of asking almost an entire generation of humanity to risk their lives if I'm not damned certain it will end this war once and for all," huffed Ranford, his tone utterly frustrated as he stood back up. "But the more I look at how this is playing out, the more I'm certain that it is exactly what the Silicates are hoping for; why would the AI's commit their own forces to battle if we're all-too-willing to grind ourselves to exhaustion trying to get at them?"

"Which bring us to this," muttered Ross as he reached inside his uniform coat and produced an envelope.

"It might be a good idea to remind you again how 'unofficial' our visit this morning is, Commander," said Ranford as he at last moved to sit back down in his seat. "More to the point, it might be better to simply pretend that Admiral Ross and I never came aboard at all, or more importantly, that we never gave you _that_ envelope."

"Should I be consulting with an attorney before I open this?" grinned Kelso as he took hold of the envelope from Admiral Ross.

"Might not be such a bad idea," replied Ranford simply, a slight grin also creasing his lips. "By even giving you that, I'm risking an involuntary 'early retirement' in a military prison."

At that, Kelso looked back over at Ranford, more than a touch surprised.

"Why risk giving it to me then?" asked Kelso as he slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the half-dozen sheets of paper held inside.

"Because you are holding the source of the nightmares that are keeping me awake at night nowadays," replied Ranford evenly. "It's an intelligence report on what the Silicates have been up to since they seized control, a report that's been classified 'ultra-compartmentalized'; I can practically count on just my fingers and toes the number of people who've laid eyes on the content of that report in its entirety."

"As you can see, we took the liberty of having it translated into your language, Commander Kelso," said Admiral Ross as Kelso began slowly reviewing the text.

As both Admiral Ross and General Ranford sat silent, Commander Sean Kelso quickly read through the report, the information on the pages very quickly sending an uncomfortable tingle up his spine. When he'd finished the final paragraph on the last page, Commander Kelso took in a deep breath as he slowly set the report back down on his desk and looked up into the pensive eyes of both Ross and Ranford.

"How confident are you that this report is accurate?" asked Kelso evenly, for a moment sincerely contemplating having another shot of rum.

"Couldn't be more confident if it had come from my mother," replied Ranford simply. "Whatever the Silicates have in store for us once we push back into enemy territory, it _can't_ be good."

As his mind churned over the information he'd read in the report, Commander Sean Kelso could hardly find any reason to disagree with General Ranford's truncated assessment.

Although Commander Kelso was very much aware that he and his people were relative newcomers to the conflict between Earth, the Chigs and the Silicates, having spent the vast majority of his adult life working as a shipwright, he was nevertheless intimately conversant with the patterns and practices that accompanied the construction, maintenance and support of a large military fleet.

Much like engineering, logistics was a numbers game.

Ever since they'd seized control of the Chig military, the Silicates had been diverting a colossal amount of materiel away from established construction programs. Moreover, the materials were being clearly being siphoned off into an area of deep space even the Chigs had no control over, territory far beyond Earth's most fervent efforts to gain intelligence on.

If it were simply a matter of building ships or other craft with which to attack Earth, it in no way made any sense; why divert resources away from the production lines the Chigs already had? If it was about producing newer or more potent weapons with which to attack Earth, it made infinitely more sense to simply adapt or otherwise revamp production lines that were already in place; if you wanted to build a new plane, it didn't make sense to abandon or demolish the factory used to build the old planes, you simply retooled the production line already in place.

No, in taking control, the Silicates had set into motion something far more elaborate and expansive, something it was clear they were taking exhaustive measures to try and hide from surveillance.

Worse still, the report made it clear that whatever timetable they were following, the arrival of the Colonials had spurred the Silicates into accelerating it greatly.

"So what is it you gentlemen want to do about this?" asked Commander Kelso pointedly as he looked across the Admiral Ross and General Ranford. "Since you took the time to come here and show me this personally, I can only guess that you have one hell-of-a favor to ask."


	11. Blackjack

_**Colonial One  
><strong>_**Former Battlestar **_**Asterica  
><strong>_**Personal Quarters of President Paul Bess**

"Just how confident are you gentleman that this mission will be able to accomplish its objectives?" asked President Bess evenly as he leaned back in his chair. "While I understand that there can be no guarantees in combat, if I am going to allow our forces to participate, at the very least I want to be sure our people aren't risking their lives on a wild-goose chase."

Taking a deep breath, Commander Sean Kelso looked over at Admiral Ross and General Ranford, the two men quite plainly considering the President's question. To be sure, it was a fair question for President Bess to ask; the two senior Earth officers were asking the Colonials to assist in making a very deep penetration into what they themselves stated was a fortified region of the enemy's territory. Nevertheless, if Kelso himself hadn't been convinced of the importance of the mission, he never would have bothered interrupting the President's Quorum meeting in order to have Ross and Ranford present their proposal to him in person.

"Well, Mister President, as you've pointed out there are _no_ guarantees when it comes to combat," began General Ranford as he held Bess's firm gaze. "In fact, the _only_ assurance I can give in regards to our certainty that this mission is essential is this; if you allow your ships to be a part of this operation, we will not be sending anything but the very _best_ of our forces along with them in order to carry it out."

"Ever since planning began, we've been consulting closely with our most trusted allies," interjected Admiral Ross. "The men and women who will be tasked to this are nothing less than _the_ most capable of our military operators; pilots, Special Forces, reconnaissance and sniper teams…"

"I understand all that," said Bess, shaking his head slightly. "The meticulous details you've presented leave little doubt in my mind that you gentlemen are very serious about playing this mission for keeps; I suppose what gives me pause are the possible _political_ ramifications. Your United Nations has made it very clear that we are to avoid engaging in any provocative actions until they've had time to decide on our petition."

"President Bess, let me assure you we wouldn't even be here unless we had more-or-less taken the possible reactions here on the home-front into account as well," smiled Ranford as he leaned forward in his seat. "Much as I hate the idea of sounding like a lawyer splitting hairs, legally speaking, the only thing the UN outright forbid was for your people to make planetfall, and while the Commonwealth Charter prevents any single nation from entering into a unilateral _political_ alliance with your government, a joint military mission like this does not violate the letter of the law."

"More to the point, Mister President, the United Nations has no jurisdiction in preventing you, your government or your military forces from conducting operations outside the confines of the Sol system," interjected Admiral Ross evenly. "You are a free and independent people; legally speaking, all our people will be doing is hitching a ride."

Taking a breath, President Bess seemed to mull those facts over, gently cracking his knuckles as he looked across to Ross and Ranford.

"If I may, Mister President, there is one more important consideration in play here," continued Ranford, smirking slightly. "I'd hoped to convince you strictly on the merits of the operation, but in the end, if the situation comes down to a give-and-take, in exchange for your assistance on this mission we are prepared to offer you a pledge from ourselves and our allies that they will back your petition to settle on Earth."

"And just how significant a pledge are talking about here?" asked Bess evenly as his gaze settled firmly on Ranford. "There are still a significant number of governments down there that have been quite vocal about their opposition."

"True, Mister President, but more often than not their actual reasons for opposing have been fairly mundane," began Ranford, waving his hand somewhat dismissively. "India's resistance is mostly because they are still coping with a massive population of their own. China and Russia simply feel it's just politically untenable for them to allow any independent government to sprout up within their territorial borders. As for the nations in the Middle East region, they're bound by their faith to oppose any non-Islamic population from settling in their area."

"Important considerations, President Bess, but not insurmountable ones," interjected Admiral Ross.

"Still, the question stands; how confident are you and your allies that us taking part in this mission will overcome that opposition?" asked Bess flatly.

"Confident enough that plans to lay down an airstrip able to accommodate your ships is already in the works, sir," replied Ranford, grinning slightly. "But, these are your ships, your crews, the decision whether or not we proceed is _yours_, President Bess."

Taking a deep breath, President Bess slowly leaned back in over his desk, looking away from the three of them as he seemed to ponder whatever thoughts were holding his mind in sway. After a few moments of pensive silence, the President slowly looked back over, his gaze settling firmly on Commander Kelso.

"How many ships are we looking at having participate in this mission if I give the go-ahead, Commander?"

"Three ships, Mister President," replied Kelso evenly. "Based on the mission profile, _Galactica_ would handle the main effort while _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ provide cover and act as a ready maneuver element against any possible counter-attack."

Nodding gently, President Bess took another deep breath as he reached up and absently scratched at the grayed goatee he'd recently allowed to take root. After a few silent moments, the President looked back over at Ross and Ranford, reached up and gently adjusted his translator earpiece, then cleared his throat a bit and grinned.

"Well, gentlemen, it would seem you have a mission to plan," said President Bess evenly as he stood up from his desk, Commander Kelso, General Ranford and Admiral Ross all following suit. "Under my authority as President of the Twelve Colonies I hereby authorize our military forces to provide any and all support needed for the operation."

"Thank you, Mister President," smiled General Ranford, a genuine expression of relief on his face as he extended a hand to President Bess.

"How long do you anticipate it will be before your forces are ready?" asked Bess as he turned and clasped onto Admiral Ross' hand as well.

"Most of the overall plan is already set, there are really only a few operational details left to hammer out," replied General Ranford evenly. "The logistics is already in place as well, about all that remains is to train up our teams; we should be prepared to go in the next couple of weeks."

thplanning to task to overall command of this mission?"

Pausing, Commander Kelso looked back over at President Bess, for a moment unsure about what it was the President was actually asking him

"Since _Galactica_ will be handling the main effort, Mister President, I'd assumed I would be the one in overall command," replied Kelso hesitantly.

Taking a deep breath, President Bess leaned forward onto his desk as he looked over at Ross and Ranford.

"Would it be too much of an inconvenience if I asked you two gentlemen to wait out in the corridor for a moment?" asked Bess evenly. "I need to discuss something with Commander Kelso."

Hesitating, Ross glanced over at Ranford for a moment, before the both of them looked somewhat uncomfortably over at Kelso, unsure.

"Of course, Mister President," muttered Ranford a moment later, motioning for Admiral Ross to follow as he made his way towards the entry hatch.

Pausing a moment as he tried to remember exactly how the hatch mechanism worked, Ranford nevertheless managed to open it, the armed Marine posted out in the corridor looking back over his shoulder as the two Earth officers stepped out.

"Private Turk," called President Bess as he caught sight of the Marine through the entryway.

"Yes, Mister President?"

"I've asked these gentlemen to wait for a moment out there in the corridor," began the President. "Do me a favor and just make sure no one gives them a hassle while they are waiting for me to speak with the Commander."

"Aye, sir."

As Bess slowly made his way around to the front of his desk, both Admiral Ross and General Ranford disappeared from view as Private Turk slowly closed and secured the entry hatch.

As the dull thud of the hatch closing echoed a bit through the President's spartan quarters, he and Commander Kelso looked at one another.

"I guess I should just come right out and ask," muttered Commander Kelso, smirking slightly as he looked over at Bess. "Are you relieving me of command of _Galactica_, Mister President?"

"What the hell would ever give you an idea like that, Sean?" asked Bess, scoffing slightly.

"I suppose it's because you asked me who would be taking command of the mission, sir," replied Kelso, his entire demeanor somewhat pensive.

"Sean, don't take me wrong, your performance as commander of this fleet has been exemplary," began Bess, shifting slightly as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the front of his desk. "You are as fair and capable an officer as I've ever known, one whose conduct at most every turn throughout these last several months has been above reproach."

"And yet, Mister President?"

"And yet, I feel it's time you began to look at yourself as more than the Commanding Officer of _Galactica_," replied Bess evenly as he held Kelso's gaze. "The plain, hard fact of the situation is that you are _not_ just in command of _Galactica_, you are the senior-most officer in this entire fleet, the de facto commander of all our military forces, not just one ship."

"Mister President, I'm not exactly sure I understand what it is you are trying to tell me right now," muttered Kelso, likewise crossing his arms as he shook his head slightly.

"What I'm saying is that it's time you started becoming more comfortable with the role of an Admiral than that of just a Commander," replied Bess, grinning slightly. "It's time for you to start delegating tactical command of operations to some of your subordinates, starting with this mission."

"With respect, Mister President, I'm not sure this is the right moment to start changing up control of the center table," replied Commander Kelso, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. "A mission like this requires unit cohesion to be at its maximum, and as a former Battlestar Commander yourself, you know that cohesion starts at the top."

"Commander…" began Bess, pausing a moment to look down at the deck while he collected his thoughts. "I know you've had doubts about yourself being in overall command ever since the attack began, it's been written all over your face. The man that you are, task-driven as you are, you've buried those doubts behind the moment, overcome them by throwing yourself into the middle of every little situation that has come our way. But command is about more than being a man of the moment, it's also about knowing when to step back and let other people do the heavy lifting."

"Mister President…"

"I'll make this an order if I have to, Commander," said Bess evenly as he held Kelso's gaze.

Taking a deep breath, Sean Kelso looked away from President Bess for a moment, hesitating. The President was right, for all the doubts he harbored about his role as Commander, he'd blocked them out by more-or-less ignoring them in the face of all the crises they'd encountered since the Cylon attack began. Indeed, he'd often lamented, if only in private and with his father, that he longed for someone else to take the reins. But as he stood there now, facing the possibility that _Galactica_ would soon be going once more into harm's way with someone else at the center table, Commander Sean Kelso felt more trepidation at the idea than he would have guessed.

"I suggest that Colonel Runel be given overall command of the operation, Mister President," began Commander Kelso as he finally looked back over at Bess. "He doesn't have much expertise with carrier operations, but he's an excellent tactician and is experienced as a task-force commander."

"He would be my pick as well," nodded President Bess as he stood back up and took a few steps towards Kelso. "Go ahead and put him in contact with the Earth liaisons so they can begin coordinating preparations."

"Aye, Mister President," replied Kelso evenly as he turned and began making his way towards the entry.

* * *

><p><strong>Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center<br>****Twenty-Nine Palms, California**

With his entire body little more than one large, throbbing ache, Captain Nathan West dropped his gear unceremoniously onto the ground. Letting out a long, laborious grown, West slowly lowered himself down onto his cot, his mind genuinely pondering whether it was worth the effort it would take for him to try and remove the boots from his smoldering feet.

"The hell with it," sighed West as he decided to skip removing his boots and instead simply flopped back onto his cot, another far more sonorous groan escaping him as he did so.

Lying there, flat on his back, his vision unfocused and twitching in rhythm with his pounding heartbeat as he looked up at the arched corrugated steel ceiling of the K-span, West simply endured the rippling aches and spasms coursing through his exhausted muscles.

When his leave had expired, his mother had all but broken down over the prospect of West returning to combat. With heavy tears rolling down her face, her voice choked by unrelenting sobs, Anne West had very nearly collapsed on the front porch of their home as Nathan made his way to the taxi parked by the curb. The only thing that had seemed to prevent her from outright locking him in his room to prevent his returning to duty was a promise Nathan made to call whenever he could while he was still planetside.

After the lengthy and somewhat expensive cab ride, West had reported back in to Colonel McQueen at Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. While he had still been very much unsure of what to expect when he reported back in, what Nathan had not been expecting was for McQueen to hustle him in very short order over to the base hospital for a full psych-workup and eval to ensure he was still fit for duty.

Although the therapist had spent the better part of a week trying to elicit any number of answers from Nathan on how he felt he was dealing with his experiences during the war, how the loss of his brother and his friends had affected him, how being trapped for months on a moon behind enemy lines had impacted him emotionally, Nathan could only guess that the answers he gave were enough for him to be deemed still fit.

Indeed, West doubted the ink on his eval had even had much of a chance to dry before he and Hawkes had been loaded up onto a convoy and bussed out to Camp Wilson at Twenty-Nine Palms for what McQueen had said would be the first phase of their training.

In contrast to the lush greens of the vegetation along coastal California, Twenty-Nine Palms was an oasis of humanity amid the veritable no-man's land of the Mojave desert. With the vast majority of the base itself little more than a live-fire impact zone for small arms, artillery and air-strike training, there was very little in the way of man-made infrastructure once one got away from Mainside.

Camp Wilson most especially was little more than a high-scale shanty-town. There were functional head facilities there, but the majority of the encampment was occupied by row upon row of the simple K-spans; prefabricated buildings that looked like nothing so much as corrugated tin cans cut in half and dropped onto cement retaining walls, even the floors were nothing but sand.

But as with so many things military, Camp Wilson was a spartan place with a serious purpose. Save for running water in the showers and head, the conditions were not too far removed from those one would find at most forward operating bases. By design, Camp Wilson was meant to get Marines to shake off a barracks mentality and get them ready for some of the less tangible rigors of a combat environment, namely the lack of creature comforts.

"I don't think I ever want to walk anywhere ever again," muttered Captain Cooper Hawkes lightly.

Slowly turning his head in the direction of Hawkes' voice, West caught sight of his friend sitting on the dirt floor of the K-span.

While West had at least expended the last of his utterly tapped energy removing all the gear from his aching, sweat-soaked body before dropping onto his cot, from the way Hawkes was seated it was clear the InVitro had simply stepped inside the entryway and flopped down gear and all into his current position, his pack still firmly strapped to his back, propped up like a discarded ragdoll against the wall.

"How far did they say we went today?" sighed Hawkes as he finally reached up and unfastened the chin strap holding his helmet in place.

"I stopped keeping track after mile twenty-seven," groaned West as he watched Hawkes begin to extricate himself from his pack's shoulder straps.

"You know, when I first heard they were thinking of disbanding the Air Commando groups, I got all excited," began Hawkes, his voice somewhat distant as he continued to laboriously remove his gear. "I thought, 'hey, this is great, they'll just shuffle us into some cushy air wing somewhere', I thought we'd just be pilots from now on, that I'd never have to think about humping around twice my body weight in gear ever again."

In spite of the pain it sent through his aching muscles, West couldn't help but chuckle as he listened to Hawkes' light tirade.

"Should have known better than that by now, Coop," grinned West as he watched Hawkes. "Colonel McQueen would be the first to tell you, every Marine is first and foremost a rifleman, and riflemen do a _lot_ of walking."

As if to emphasize what West had said, at that moment a company of Marines trudged on by in formation just outside the open door. Unlike West and Hawkes, they were straight infantrymen, grunts in every traditional and poetic sense of the word.

Rifles slung, gear stacked upon still more gear strapped to their bodies, they made their way relentlessly along the row of K-spans, the choking dust kicked up by their feet rising into the air.

As he watched them file past the open door, West couldn't help but notice how young so many of the faces filing by looked. Most of them were just kids to his eyes, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, kids upon whose shoulders the safety of an entire world rested.

For a moment, Nathan West's mind flashed back to the memory of his brother Neil.

Unlike Nathan, Neil had been a grunt just like those passing by outside. And just like the grunts filing by in formation, Neil had also been barely more than a kid when he'd enlisted in the Marines.

"They really have no idea what waits for them out there," muttered West as he slowly kicked his feet back over the edge of his cot and sat up, his eyes locked on the line of Marines walking by.

"They'll find out soon enough," sighed Hawkes as he likewise watched them go by.

As the last two Marines in the formation made their way past the K-span entry, the bright orange road-guard vests they were wearing practically burning in the glare of the afternoon sun, West at last reached down and began unlacing his boots. By the way they felt, burning to point that he could have sworn they were on fire, Nathan fully expected that when he removed his boots and socks he would find his feet covered in blisters, but he nevertheless undertook the effort as a first step in making his way down to the showers.

"Is it me, or is all this crap heavier than I remember?" asked Hawkes as slowly stood back up and more-or-less dragged his pile of gear across the dirt floor over next to his cot.

"Price we pay for finally getting body armor capable of defeating Chig small arms," muttered West as he watched Hawkes lower himself onto the edge of his cot.

Much as he tried to joke about it, West knew Hawkes was right; the new gear was heavier, if only because there was a lot more of it to carry these days.

Prior to the war, the entrenched dogma of military procurement had been one of logistical streamlining, most especially with regard to the typical soldier's personal combat gear. With the possibility of having to fight in a number of different planetary environments, gear had taken what amounted to a giant step backwards from the highly specialized Improved Load Bearing Equipment systems used in previous decades to the much simpler fifth generation All-Purpose Lightweight Individual Carrying Equipment that could be made to fit over either standard combat utility uniforms or bulky full-body environmental suits with just a tug on a few straps.

But with that war now entering its third year, individual combat effectiveness had once again taken over the driver's seat from logistical streamlining and the use of completely different gear sets specialized for different combat environments had come back into vogue; now each Marine on the battlefield could hump around with more shit strapped, slung or otherwise affixed to their body than their predecessors could have ever hoped or wanted to.

Even camouflage uniforms, having once been tossed aside during the AI rebellion when it was found that the repeating patterns were easily discernible to Silicate eyes were once again coming back into wider circulation.

About the only things that had thus far remained unchanged were the K-Bar, sidearm and rifle that Nathan had been schlepping around and trusting with his life on the battlefield since Day-One of the war, and even the rifle was slated for a new replacement in the months ahead.

So much change in just a matter of a few months left Nathan somewhat reeling from a sense that he had stumbled back into an entirely different Marine Corps from the one he'd known prior to being stranded on that moon in Chig territory.

Taking a deep breath, Nathan reached down and braced himself mentally for the pain he knew was coming as he began slowly pulling his boot free from his swollen foot.

"You might want to put up some air-fresheners in here before you do that," came a deep voice from the far end of the K-span.

Letting go of his foot, his boot nowhere near removed, the weary appendage falling back to the ground in a slight swirl of dust like a leaden weight, Nathan chuckled a bit as he turned and looked over at Colonel McQueen, the man standing in the K-Span entryway at the far end, hands on his hips, the sun from outside framing him, the man looking like nothing so much as a chiseled Greek statue clad in camouflage.

"With respect, Colonel, I'd stand, but I'm afraid you'd be calling for a corpsman after I dropped to the deck from the effort," grinned West.

Snorting slightly, McQueen stepped in through the entry and began making his way towards West and Hawkes.

"Did you two enjoy your little nature walk today?" asked McQueen as he cast a somewhat bemused grin over at Hawkes, the man lying on his cot, slowly waving his hand back and forth in front of his face.

"All things considered, sir, I wish I'd been allowed to take along an audio player so I could have listened to some music," muttered Hawkes as he dropped his hand back down and began rapidly blinking his eyes. "Right now I'm having trouble keeping my eyes in focus; I'm so exhausted I actually think I'm going blind."

"Don't be such a drama queen, Hawkes," replied McQueen evenly.

Slowly standing up from his cot, his aching legs screaming from the effort, his breath heavy with the pained exertion of doing so, West looked over at McQueen as the man stopped in front of him.

"Far be it for me to question your orders, Colonel," began West as he tried to stretch out the significant ache throbbing in his lower back. "But this was the third hump we've been on this week; I can't imagine Admiral Ross' orders were for us to be walked to death in the middle of the desert."

"Hardly," muttered McQueen, still grinning a bit. "This was more-or-less just a crash-course to get you two ready."

"Ready for what, Colonel?" asked Hawkes, almost making a show of lifting his right forearm with his left hand only to let it go with a flop back down onto the cot. "The only thing I'm ready for is a new body."

"Then I guess it's too bad for you that you're not an AI, Hawkes," said McQueen as he glanced back over at his fellow InVitro. "If you were we'd be able to just download that splendid personality of yours into new body."

"Oh, if only," sighed Hawkes as he sat up in his cot and kicked his feet over the side.

"In any event, it doesn't matter," sighed McQueen as he looked back over at West. "Orders have come down, there's a vehicle outside waiting to drive you over to the airfield, there's an ISSCV standing by there."

His mind clearing a bit from its exhaustion-induced fog, West looked McQueen squarely in the eye.

"Where are we going, Colonel?" he asked.

"Classified," replied McQueen flatly. "I'm just here to shepherd you to the airfield, not give a briefing."

Pausing, West slowly looked down at his sweaty and dust encrusted uniform.

"No chance of us being able to shower before we go, sir?" asked West, smirking a bit as he looked back up at McQueen. "Otherwise, depending on how long the flight is, it'll be the ISSCV that will need a lot of air fresheners."

Opening his mouth for a moment, McQueen paused, looked at West, then over at the equally grimy Hawkes, then down at the watch on his wrist.

"Alright," he sighed, smirking slightly. "You have twenty minutes to shit-shower-shave and then you two need to be on that vehicle outside."

"Aye, sir," replied Nathan.

Hawkes merely nodded his head.

With that, McQueen turned and began making his way back down to the far entrance.

"What do you think they have in mind for us, West?" asked Hawkes as the entry door closed behind McQueen.

"No idea," sighed West, shaking his head slightly. "But we need to get over to the showers before a line forms; last thing I want is to have to smell your nasty funk all the way to wherever it is they're taking us."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Command Operations Center**

"The last of the Earth personnel and equipment will be secured in the next couple of hours," sighed Commander Sean Kelso as he glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Any hiccups getting our guests situated?"

Casting his eyes over towards Colonel Runel, the man deeply engrossed with going the contents of the thick stack of printouts before him, Commander Kelso merely smirked as he waited for a response.

Letting out a yawn, Runel finally looked up from the page he'd been reading and began rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"No, sir," said Runel simply as his yawn finally abated. "Between the translator devices and the liaisons that've been aboard getting oriented over the last week, things have gone a lot smoother than I'd honestly been expecting."

Nodding his head slightly, Kelso looked back over at the clock, his fingers lightly drumming away on the large operations table.

"Any last minute concerns you feel need to be addressed?" asked Kelso evenly as he continued to drum away on the table.

"Only one, Commander," sighed Runel as he looked back over at Kelso. "Is there any particular reason that you do _that_?"

As he pointed over at Kelso's drumming fingers, the Commander abruptly stopped.

"You know I have never really thought about it before," grinned Kelso as he looked down at his own hands. "Just something I picked up from my father, I guess; used to drive my mother crazy whenever he'd do it around the house."

Chuckling slightly, Runel looked back down at the pages on the table.

"What about the operational order, any concerns with the plan itself?" asked Admiral Kelso.

Shrugging slightly, Runel slowly shuffled all the pages back into a single neat pile.

"Well, the operational order Admiral Ross has put together is detailed, no doubt about that," sighed Runel as he took a moment to look at the watch on his wrist, shaking it slightly when he realized it had actually stopped before simply looking over at the clock on the wall. "There are a lot of variables we'll be juggling once we jump out there, but I can't really find any inherent fault with the plan, especially since it will be his people taking the brunt of the big risks."

"And what about the training flights, you think our pilots are ready?"

"Major Culver seems pretty confident our people will be able to pull it off," replied Runel evenly. "The upgrades to the Raptors also seem to be working well so I suppose the technical side of the equation is handled."

"And what about Major Burke?" asked Kelso pointedly. "Has she been giving you any trouble?"

"Well, I doubt we'll be sitting down in a bar tossing back shots of ambrosia together any time soon," grinned Runel as he glanced over at the Commander. "But, her knowledge and experience regarding this ship _has_ been helpful in getting me acclimated. I've actually been quite impressed with the proficiency of your CIC crew in general, Commander."

"They're good people," nodded Kelso, sighing a bit.

Noting the pensive look on the Commander's face, Runel took a breath.

"You know, Commander, when you first told me last week that I'd be the one tasked with command of this operation, my first thought was to wonder about what would happen to the _Enceladus_ while I was gone," began Runel evenly, shaking his head slightly as he spoke. "Crazy as it might sound, the idea that I would be in command of another ship after everything the _Enceladus_ and I have been through together left me feeling like I was somehow betraying her."

"And what does your fiancée think about your love-affair with the other 'woman' in your life?"

"Considering how attached she is to the _Savitri_, she really doesn't have much wiggle-room to be jealous," smiled Runel.

Chuckling a bit, Commander Kelso once again looked up towards the clock on the wall.

"Well, if it helps, while you are away I will be overseeing a bit of a make-over for your gallant lady," began Kelso as he forced himself to look away from the clock. "Some of the material requests we submitted to the UN have been granted so we'll be able to make some more permanent repairs to the _Enceladus_' battle damage."

"And what about the _Proteus_, Commander?"

"We should be ready to begin testing for air-tightness on the repaired compartments in a couple of days," replied Kelso evenly. "At least I won't be left behind without a puzzle to keep my mind occupied."

As an uncomfortable silence once more settled in over the two of them, Commander Kelso took in a deep breath and looked over at Colonel Runel.

"I'm not going to mince words, Colonel," he began, glancing somewhat absently over at the thick operational order lying on the table. "This is our first real joint operation where we'll be going in with our eyes open. Go in there, get it done, and get out."

"I will, sir," nodded Runel.

"I know you will," sighed Kelso, dipping his head slightly for a moment.

Then, with a gentle thump of his fist against the surface of the operations table, Commander Kelso straightened up, turned, and extended a hand to Colonel Runel.

"You have the conn, Colonel Runel," said Kelso simply as Runel clasped hold of his hand. "Good hunting."

"Thank you, Commander," replied Runel as Kelso gave his hand a firm shake.

Without another word, Kelso then turned and made his way towards the entryway and stepped out into the corridor.

As he began making his way towards the hangar deck, Commander Kelso couldn't help but continue glancing around somewhat broodingly at the corridor bulkheads, the curiously potent memories of the _Galactica_'s construction flooding through his memory as he noted rivet points, panels, the lighting overhead.

Kelso knew he still regarded the _Galactica_ as more-or-less his baby; from a bare frame, he'd watched as the workers formed the sweeping contours of her hull, assembled her systems. When she was complete, it had been under his command that she'd slipped from her moorings under her own power for the first time, and very soon after had fired the inaugural salvo of her potent weapons in anger. With her sturdy decks beneath his feet, the two of them had escaped the voracious firestorm of the Cylon attack and sailed on to reach the very doorstep of the 'mythical' planet Earth.

Now _Galactica_ would be sailing once more, but this time it would be without him standing in the midst of her beating heart in CIC. Absently, Kelso reached out and ran his fingers across the surface of the bulkhead.

"Commander!"

The sound of the voice echoing out along the corridor wrestled Commander Kelso back away from his inner thoughts.

Turning around, Commander Kelso caught sight of Captain Jordan Gaines as she quickly jogged up beside him.

"Mind if I see you off, sir?" asked Gaines as she stepped up to him.

"Please," smiled Kelso as the two of them began making their way off along the corridor towards the hangar deck.

Glancing over at the Commander, Gaines was plainly able to read the apprehension in his expression. After a few tense, silent moments, Gaines chuckled.

"What's so funny?" asked Kelso simply as he watched Gaines continue to shake her head in light amusement.

"Just the look on your face, sir," replied Gaines as she looked over at him. "My mother had the same one when I left for my senior prom."

"She was that worried about you, huh?" smirked Kelso.

"She had her reasons I suppose," continued Gaines, smirking slightly herself. "As far as she knew, I was still a virgin at the time."

Kelso was about to quip that Gaines' mother probably should have known better, but instead held his tongue; it wouldn't serve anything to let go with a joke at Jordan's expense, especially since his somewhat sour mood might make the comment seem more bitter than he'd want it to.

"Are your Marines ready for the mission, Captain?" asked Kelso, taking a deep breath.

"Wow, there I went and set you up with a perfect chance to take a pot-shot at my wayward chastity and all you can ask is whether my Marines are ready?" shot back Gaines, scoffing a bit. "Your mood must be worse than I'd thought."

Pausing mid-step, Kelso dipped his head a bit, forcing a slight grin onto his face as he raised his eyes up to meet Gaines'.

"I just didn't want to take any cheap shots right now," he muttered. "Didn't seem appropriate."

Looking at him with an utterly appraising expression, Gaines crossed her arms.

"Those gears in your head never really stop spinning, do they?" she asked lightly. "Everything about you right now seems to be screaming that you don't expect to see any of us again once we jump away."

"That's not true," replied Kelso, shaking his head slightly.

"Then I suppose it's _Galactica_ herself you're not confident in," she continued. "You're afraid that without you here to coax your big baby along, she'll stumble and scrape her knee."

"No," countered Kelso flatly, scoffing a bit. "I helped build this ship, no one in this fleet knows what she's capable of better than me; she's up to this."

"Well then, much like my mom, I think it's time you learned how to let your little girl go on to the prom without you," said Gaines evenly. "Keep in mind, 'daddy', she's not a virgin anymore either, and neither is her crew."

"That simple, huh?" smirked Kelso, likewise crossing his arms as he stared back at Gaines.

"That simple," replied Gaines, nodding her head slightly.

Taking a deep breath, Kelso glanced around at the corridor, at his ship, uncertainty still nipping at the edges of his thoughts.

Glancing back up into Gaines' eyes, Kelso let out a long sigh.

"I think I can find my way to the Raptor from here, Captain," he said evenly.

Tilting her head slightly at the abrupt statement, Gaines regarded him for a moment.

After a few seconds, she merely nodded her head and then came slowly to attention.

"Very well, Commander," she replied coolly.

As he turned to begin making his way once more towards the hanger deck, Kelso was surprised when he felt Gaines suddenly reach out and grab hold of his uniform lapels.

Before he could react, Gaines all but pinned him to the bulkhead with her body as she brought her lips full to his in a deep, longing kiss, the sensations rushing through his body utterly tossing aside all coherent thoughts in his mind.

As their lips finally parted, Gaines slowly let go of his uniform, the Commander's expression little more than stunned as he looked at her.

Clearing her throat, Gaines looked either way down along the corridor, more-or-less checking to see whether anyone had seen them kiss, however late such a precaution might have been.

As she slowly smoothed out the slight creases her grabbing hold of his uniform had left, Gaines looked back up into his still questioning eyes.

"We'll be back," she said simply.

As he opened his mouth to say something, Gaines quickly shook her head as she reached up and gently placed her fingers over his lips.

"I said, we'll be back," she reiterated as she slowly removed her fingers from his lips.

"How do you know?" he asked simply, staring down into her eyes.

"Because, I just got my good-luck kiss," she replied, her eyes not breaking contact with his. "And I'll be damned if it's going to be the last one I get."

Then, without another word further, Gaines very quickly turned on her heels and began making her way off along the corridor.

His head still swimming a bit from the kiss, Commander Kelso watched her go.

"I hope it isn't either," he whispered as he watched Gaines disappear around a corridor turn.

* * *

><p><strong>Aero-Tech Corporate Headquarters<br>****Las Vegas, Nevada**

As he sat looking out his panoramic window at the city of Las Vegas, the mid-morning sun shining brightly down up the glass, metal and concrete monument to unabashed commercialism, Michael Lane let out an aggravated sigh as he half-heartedly listened to the murmuring idiots behind him.

To say that the departure of the three Colonial warships from their holding orbit near the moon had caused all hell to break loose planet-wide would be an understatement. Almost the moment they left, news broadcasters around the globe had cut-in with their special reports, very quickly offering up a veritable buffet of rampant speculation. Feeding fuel to the frenzy, politicians, think-tankers, indeed just about any moron in the vicinity of a microphone had chimed in with their two-cents worth on what the departure of the Colonial ships meant. The fervor stirred up worldwide almost made the frantic gossip surrounding the initial arrival of the Colonials pale by comparison.

But to Lane, the fact that the departure was seemingly a surprise to anyone was what struck him the most, if only because it seemed to highlight just how largely uninformed the general public really was.

For anyone with even the most tepid of access to a source within the military or political arenas, it had been clear for weeks now that something was in the works. All around the planet, small stockpiles of troops and equipment had been mustered into staging areas for movement via a veritable revolving escalator of transports heading out to the Colonial vessels. By the time a massed flights of fighter aircraft had broken atmosphere and made their way to the Colonial flagship, it was clear to anyone with half a finger on the pulse of the UN that a military strike of some kind was being prepared.

The only real question that even Lane's sources at the Pentagon had yet to answer was just what that mission was going to be.

"Look, I don't give one good God-damned about why they left or where they went to," snapped Lane, his voice slicing through the din of his corporate subordinates as he spun his seat back around to face them.

As each of the executives in the room fell into pensive silence, Lane eyed each of them sternly.

"The fact that there's a joint mission at all is what I'm interested in," continued Lane, leaning in over his large desk. "With so many IFOR nations participating, it seems clear that support for Colonial settlement going forward is all but a done deal. What I need to know right now is where we are with locking in those exclusive rights to their technology when they do?"

Reaching up to adjust his thin-rimmed glasses, Alan Lerner, Aero-Tech's chief legal consultant cleared his throat.

"Unfortunately, we haven't made much in the way of progress," sighed Lerner, shaking his head slightly. "In fact, the judge threw out our petition against Colonial settlement with prejudice, so there is no chance that we'll be able to refile it."

"What about the pressure your little lawyer toadies have been told to put on our contract holders?" snapped back Lane. "I want it hammered home that those contracts are binding and exclusive."

"Mike, be reasonable…"

"Fuck reasonable," shouted Lane, snatching up a pen from his desk, and for a moment, seriously contemplating throwing it at Lerner. "I didn't just become CEO so I can sit back and watch Aero-Tech stocks plummet because you and your pseudo-intellectual cronies in legal are afraid to play a little political hardball."

"Most of our political capital and clout was burned up just keeping this company from being broken up after the mess left by Wayne," chimed in Arnold Dunmore, shrugging slightly. "Public image aside, we really don't have many friends left in the seats of power anymore; about the only thing keeping this company afloat right now are those contracts, you push too hard and we might end up with nothing."

"Thanks for that concise opinion," muttered Lane derisively. "Now, do you have anything useful to contribute?"

"Just a hard dose of reality that you don't seem to willing to accept," stated Dunmore, unflinching in the face of the deep glare his statement had elicited from Lane. "With the political climate being what it is, the chances that Aero-Tech will be the only firm contracted to reverse engineer Colonial technology is close to nil. In the last week alone, over a dozen firms put in bids; unless you change our focus from litigation to cooperation, it won't matter for shit how many carriers or cruisers our orbital docks can throw together, everything we produce will be obsolete before it's even complete."

Tossing the pen back down in nothing short of disgust over the apparent lack of spinal fortitude amongst his executives, Lane's thoughts continued to churn.

"What about our subcontractors?" offered Lane evenly. "Maybe if we offer up some supplemental capital to fund their operations they'll be able to act as our proxies and under-bid the competition. We can then buy up the patents, or at the very least we might be able to control the sourcing of that technology."

"The language in the Colonial proposal is very specific," countered Lerner as he opened up the folder in his hands. "For all the relative procedural ignorance they may have about our political systems, it's clear the Colonials will only offer up their technology if it's an international effort; no one company or nation can possibly gain exclusive access the way they have the dominos set up."

Letting out another long sigh, Lane looked out across his vast desk.

"And based on what we know right now, which firms have the best chances of obtaining contracts at this point?"

"EADS Astrium and RKK Energia are almost a certainty," replied Dunmore evenly as he too opened up a folder in his hands. "BAE Systems and Thales Alenia have announced they're putting in a joint bid; CASC, Antrix and ISA are also in negotiations with one another for a joint contract."

"Oh, lovely, the Chinese, Indians and the Iranians working together, that ought to be comical to watch," muttered Lane sarcastically. "What about American firms; who's our competition here in the states?"

"Take your pick," replied Dunmore, smirking slightly. "Boeing, Lockheed-Martin, Rocketdyne, Ad Astra, Weyland-Yutani…"

"Christ, are these _real_ bids or are you just reading off names from some wiki page about aerospace manufacturers?" snorted Lane as he rubbed at his throbbing temples.

"Whether I am or not, it still doesn't change the fact that if we don't start looking for a joint-partner ourselves, Aero-Tech is going to be left out in the cold," said Dunmore, closing the folder.

"No, the facts are that nearly every ship in the fleet right now is of an Aero-Tech-patented design," countered Lane. "Lerner, I want legal to change focus and start looking into any recourse we might have if any attempts are made to retrofit Colonial-derived systems into those vessels without our say-so."

"Mike, just how antagonistic are you planning to be?" snapped Alan Lerner, his voice almost exasperated as he looked back across at Lane. "All this litigation might slow the process, but only to a point; in the end analysis, as chief legal counsel, I am telling you, this is a _losing_ strategy."

Looking over at Dunmore, Lerner and the other equally worthless members of his senior management, Lane simply fumed in silence.

"Mike, we need a decision here," prodded Dunmore, his voice utterly irksome to listen to at this point for Lane.

Taking a deep breath, Lane looked back over at the assemblage.

"Go ahead and make contact with Weyland-Yutani," he said evenly, his tone low, almost defeated. "We've worked with them in the past, so they're probably our best bet for a partnership at this point."

With out another word, the assemblage of executives simply nodded and began filing their way out of Lane's office.

As the door finally closed, Lane slowly stood up at his desk, leaned forward onto it, his shoulders hunched as he took in several deep, steadying breaths, fighting against the utter frustration coursing through his body.

But try as he might, in an instant, something in him snapped, the thought that he had finally achieved the pinnacle of success all his machinations had been contrived to arrange, only to face the ominous specter that he was now cast as little more than a Captain Smith helming a corporate _Titanic_ overriding the last of his control.

His anger boiling over, Lane lashed out violently and thrust the neat stacks of reports and pages, his computer terminal, phone, quite literally anything and everything within arm's length on his desk, sending all of it crashing unceremoniously to the floor as Lane let out what amounted to little more than a howl of impotent rage.

As he stood there, his breathing heavy, ragged, a thought suddenly cut through his chaotic thoughts with acid clarity.

"I would be so unfortunate if something happened to the Colonials before they were able to hand over their technology," he muttered, an utterly predatory grin creeping across his lips. "If there are no ships to reverse engineer, then it won't matter who puts in a contract."

As that thought continued to bounce around in his mind, Lane reached for the cell phone clipped to his belt. When he didn't find it, Lane looked around, finally catching sight of it lying on the floor.

"Cheap fucking belt clip," he muttered bitterly as he picked it up and slid his finger across the touch-screen.

Quickly punching in his security code, Lane unlocked his phone and then accessed the hidden partition on the phone's memory through a ghost application. Scrolling through the files in the hidden partition, Lane located and opened a clandestine phone directory. After linking his phone into Aero-Tech's own dedicated, secured and untraceable satellite network, Lane dialed in the number he'd pulled up from the private list.

"_Dillinger_," muttered a gruff voice on the other end of line.

"It's Lane."

"_Is this a secure line_?"

"Yeah," replied Lane simply as turned and looked back out his panoramic window. "I need an encrypted copy of everything I gave you on Project UMO."

"_Won't come cheap_," replied the voice on the other end of the line.

"Insurance policies rarely are these days," countered Lane. "What's your price?"

"_Twenty-million, negotiable bearer bonds, coupons attached_," replied the voice evenly.

"A little pricey considering I was the one who gave you the information for safe-keeping in the first place," said Lane.

"_I'm not an idiot, Lane_," replied the voice, almost chuckling. "_You purged every last one of those files from your company mainframe making this the only complete copy left in existence. More to the point, you wouldn't be asking for it back if it wasn't worth at least ten times that much to you now_."

"Are you aware of just how hard it is to get hands on an actual bearer bond these days?"

"_I don't give a damn, because frankly, it's not _my_ problem_," countered the voice flatly. "_If you really want your information back, the only way you'll get it is by meeting _my_ terms so I suggest you jump aboard that fancy corporate jet of yours and make the hop across the pond, otherwise stop wasting my time_."

"Fair enough," muttered Lane. "But I also have some other business I need taken care of as well."

"_Before I can quote a price, I need to know what you have in mind_."

"Espionage, some compartmentalized damage control, maybe a bit of wet-work."

"_Cleaning house or culling the competition_?"

"Bit of both," replied Lane flatly. "Can arrangements be made?"

"_That depends, how big of a body-count are we looking at having to arrange_?"

"Not a lot," shrugged Lane. "Just a little under fifty thousand."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Hammerhead One-Three-Nine**

With his hand firmly gripped around the controls, Captain Nathan West kept a keen eye on his LIDAR display as his plane rapidly closed in on the target's defense perimeter.

"_King-of-Hearts, this is Jack-of-Spades_."

"Send it, Jack-of-Spades," muttered West, his eyes not leaving the LIDAR.

"_Is it me, or are these controls feeling a bit clunky to you_?"

Grinning slightly, West finally looked up from the display and out past his port wing at Hawkes' Hammerhead holding tight formation with him.

"These older A-models are a bit worse for the wear, but they don't need to be top-line for what we're doing," replied West evenly.

"_Any indication we've been picked up yet_?"

Glancing back down at his control panel, West toggled a few controls.

"Doesn't look like we've been zeroed, but we're coming up pretty quick on the defense perimeter so we should be seeing some activity soon; go ahead and set your Master Arm to active."

"_Copy that, going weapons hot_," replied Hawkes evenly.

Likewise switching his targeting systems to active, West performed a quick check on his weapons inventory; a mixed load of air-to-air and anti-sats, more than enough to take care of what was expected up ahead.

But then again, it _was_ only the two of them vectoring in on the target.

"Okay, look sharp, we are at five-zero KMSK's to target, according to intel, things should start happening any moment now," called West as he focused his attention back in on the LIDAR.

Just then, the Threat Alarm began screaming for West's attention.

"Whoa, looks like we just got their attention," grinned West.

"_Affirm_," replied Hawkes, the sound of his own Threat Alarm echoing in the background of the radio transmission. "_Looks like we're being painted on LIDAR by six orbital defense sats_."

"Copy that," muttered West as his LIDAR screen tagged and highlighted the six offending orbital satellites. "You take Alpha, Bravo and Charlie on the left. I'll bag Delta, Echo and Fox."

"_Copy that_," replied Hawkes simply as his plane suddenly peeled left, banking low and away from West's wing.

Reaching out to his panel, West toggled his selector switch to his anti-satellite missiles.

"_This is Jack-of-Spades; targets are acquired, I have good tone; Fox-Three_."

As he continued to sail in towards his own targets, West nevertheless continued to listen attentively for Hawkes; with three active-homing missiles in the air, his situational awareness needed to be at its peak in order to avoid straying too close to Hawkes' engagement zone.

Nevertheless, as he held his course, very much cognizant that he also had three satellites he needed to kill, West kept his finger poised over his trigger while the LIDAR system linked in its feed with the independent homing systems on three of his missiles. A moment later, he heard the tone indicating a good lock echo out from his helmet speakers.

"King-of-Hearts; tone and lock; Fox-Three."

As West pulled back on the trigger, three dull thuds reverberated through his Hammerhead's airframe, the streaking contrails of the three missiles racing out from underneath his wings. As West watched them separate out along different flight-paths, the three missiles disappeared from his view, lost against the backdrop of the planet the three targeted satellites were guarding.

"_This is Jack-of-Spades, scratch three_," called Hawkes somewhat triumphantly. "_King-of-Hearts, status_?"

His eyes looking back at his LIDAR, West watched as the three satellites he'd targeted disappeared from view.

"Hoo-rah, scratch three as well," replied West as he looked up in time to see the three faint fireballs of his destroyed targets being suffocated by the breathless void of space.

"_West, check your scope, looks like your targets might have gotten a few of the rails before they bought it_," called Hawkes.

Glancing back down at LIDAR, West quickly saw that Hawkes was right; four enemy missiles had launched before his own missiles had impacted.

"Affirm, tally four hostile sparrows, closing fast," called West as he thumbed the joystick's weapon selector switch over to the Hammerhead's chin-mounted cannon.

Angling in towards the closing missiles, West opened up with a long burst that streaked out across the void, cutting into two of the inbound enemy missiles.

"Clipped two, but the others are still homing," called West as yet yanked hard over on his control yoke, pitching his Hammerhead into a high-left turn. "Vector in on me, I'll try and jink 'em, but I might need you to cut them down for me."

"_Copy that_," replied Hawkes.

Continuing to pull his plane's nose around, West opened up his throttles to try and keep the distance between his Hammerhead and the closing missiles as wide as possible. The missiles would eventually catch him, a Hammerhead was fast, but not fast enough to outrun the closing ordnance, but at least it would buy him a bit of time.

Reaching out to his panel, West punched up his Hammerhead's ECM and auto-defense systems.

Almost instantly, the rear mounted auto-turret began spewing out a withering fire to his rear as the computer popped out a spread of chaff to try and throw off the closing missiles.

Looking back down at LIDAR, West watched as one of the closing missiles veered off towards the chaff, the rear turret cutting into it a split second before it was able to correct its course away from the decoy.

Three down, but the fourth still closing in fast.

"Where're you at, Hawkes?" called West urgently as he slammed his yoke hard over to the right, pitching his nose back down, a hard jink to try and throw the missile off as he popped off more chaff.

As if to answer, West caught sight of a streaming line of weapons fire out of the corner of his eye.

"_Hoo-rah, your tail is clear, King-of-Hearts_," called Hawkes as West watched the final missile disappear from his LIDAR.

As West evened out his flight path, angling around once more towards the target planet, Hawkes' Hammerhead once more pulled into formation off his port wing.

"_Have you got a track on any more enemy sats nearby_?" asked Hawkes evenly.

"No, looks like we've punched a hole in the orbital network," replied West as he checked LIDAR for any more contacts. "Let's go ahead vector in on the planet, get down low to the deck and get our eyes on the target before any bandits show up."

"_Copy that_."

Leveling his nose back out on course for the planet, West grinned a bit.

"Time to get Geequed, my friend," he said simply.

* * *

><p><strong>Prisoner Internment Facility<br>****Kazbek**

His mind very much cognizant of the fate of the last hapless soul who'd been unfortunate enough to grab hold of the high-voltage fence line, he stood looking out past the wire as an utterly weary-looking group of prisoners jumped down off the small convoy of trucks and were led back inside the prison perimeter under the watchful eyes of their heavily-armed Silicate escorts.

That he'd survived at all to become a prisoner-of-war was nothing short of miraculous, but after nearly nine months of toiling away in the brutal conditions of the mines underground, acting as slave labor in the enemy's effort to harvest the uniquely formed ore known to him by the shamelessly self-aggrandizing name of Sewell Fuel, dubbed such by the equally shameless if deceased Aero-Tech toady Howard Sewell, he was truly nearing the edge of his utterly spent level of mental resolve.

Indeed, as he stood there now at the fence line, he had half a mind to go ahead and grab a firm hold onto the high-voltage fencing, if only to end the suffering he had grown utterly weary of enduring.

Truly, would it really be such a grievous sin, as his devoutly Catholic upbringing would seem to indicate, to end his life that way?

What value was his life anymore if the only respite he received from the brutal conditions underground was the occasional torture sessions he endured at the hands of his Silicate captors?

"There must be some kind of way out of here," he muttered bitterly.

"Said the Joker to the thief," replied a gently husky voice behind him.

Turning around, Lieutenant Paul Wang, callsign "Joker", looked over at Captain Shane Vansen as she took a few more tentative steps towards him, her bruised face holding an expression that seemed to indicate she knew exactly what he was thinking about as he stood there beside the electrically-charged fence.

"Thief?" muttered Wang, a somewhat quizzical look on his face. "What exactly did you steal, Shane?"

"Plenty of hearts back in High School, but nothing much lately," she replied as she too looked out at the prisoners being led back into the encampment. "What you said just reminded me of that old song is all, you know, one of the ones Hawkes was always playing on that damned antique radio of his."

Grinning slightly, Wang let out a slight chuckle as he too remembered.

"Right, Hendrix wasn't it?" he asked simply as he eyes settled back in on the prisoners as well.

"Um-hmm."

"I wonder if 'Phouse is with that group," muttered Wang as his eyes scanned over the ragged cluster of bodies trudging their way through the gate.

"Should be, unless there was another accident down there," replied Vansen, letting out a long, somewhat detracted sigh.

Part of what made conditions in the mines so brutal was that the Silicates gave almost no thought to even some of the simplest of safety precautions. Cave-ins were the biggest danger, and unfortunately, also an all-too common occurrence down in the mines. Worse still, the Silicates had made it very clear that they didn't give one-damned-bit about trying to dig out any survivors when they happened and were all-too-willing to execute any prisoners who attempted to abandon mining the ore in favor of digging them out themselves.

"Well, if she did survive another turn in the mines, at least she'll be able to eat," said Wang as he slowly turned away from the fence and began making his way back over towards the dilapidated huts that were the prisoner quarters.

A chance to eat was about the only reward the dispirited prisoners had left, and even that was only offered to prisoners returning from the mines. To say the dreadful mush the Silicates fed them was anywhere near sufficient to quell the acute pangs of hunger was about as grandiose a lie as trying to pass it off as something truly palatable. Nevertheless, with the only two choices being rapid starvation or choking down the somewhat rancid offering, very few actually chose rapid starvation.

"You're scheduled to go down into the mines in the morning aren't you?" asked Vansen evenly.

Taking a deep breath, Wang simply nodded.

"All things being equal, I almost wish that Chig fighter had smashed into the compartment I was actually in instead of the one right next to it."

Reaching over, Vansen took hold of Wang's shoulder.

"We're alive, that's all that matters," she said, her tone only half-convincing that she actually believed her own statement. "And as long as we're alive, there's still a chance we'll make it out of here."

Shaking his head, Wang didn't even think about offering up a protest.

Really, what was the point?

Although such a hope might have seemed plausible to hold onto when they'd first arrived at the prison camp, the steady stream of captives who'd arrived since then had painted a pretty bleak picture of how the war was going.

Earth's fleets were either being pummeled to debris or were in full retreat, left behind in the wake of the withdrawal of Earth forces were entire garrisons, the isolated troops suffering the brunt of an insurmountable onslaught as the Chigs blitzkrieged with reckless abandon over the few fortified positions. For everything that the dispirited prisoners on Kazbek knew about the status of the war effort, it seemed that defeat was all but inevitable.

Wang knew that and so did Shane, but damned if he was about to waste any of his sapped energies telling her as much when it simply meant he'd end up in a pointless argument with her about it.

All around the camp, literally hundreds of other prisoners were doing little more than milling about. In a very real sense, the camp had become a microcosm of the international war effort itself. All around, clusters of Americans were intermingled with their brothers and sisters-in-arms from Russia, Germany, China, France, Iran, and Israel. Indeed, just about every nation in the UN IFOR was represented, in so many ways, the individual soldiers succeeding where their governments had failed by overcoming what were still very deep-seated societal grudges and prejudices back home in the face of their common suffering.

Offering a casual wave at an emaciated yet stern-looking Pakistani officer leaning against the wall of one of the huts, Wang watched as the man managed a weak smile and waved back.

"You know it's funny," grinned Wang as he and Vansen came to a stop near the hut entryway. "Before the war, a lot of these guys would have been chomping at the bit to go to war with one another, but now…"

"I know what you mean," smirked Vansen as she watched a couple Israeli and Iraqi troops chatting casually with some Chinese soldiers. "It's the kind of love one could expect to see if the Forty-Niners moved to Chicago."

"I wouldn't go that far," scoffed Wang, chuckling a bit.

Just then, an undercurrent of tension seemed to take hold of some of the prisoners milling about down at the far end of the encampment. As a few excited shouts echoed out, several of the prisoners nearer to Wang and Vansen began hurriedly making their way towards the commotion.

"What the hell is going on?" muttered Shane, scowling a bit as she motioned for Wang to follow.

Somewhat wary, Wang nevertheless fell into step behind Vansen, himself somewhat curious. More often than not, a commotion like the one roiling through the camp simply turned out to be a fight of some kind, two prisoners who'd lost themselves to frustrations or old prejudices that had bubbled to the surface out of desperation.

But as Vansen and Wang continued to make their way towards the crowd gathering at the far end, one thing was clear; this wasn't about a fight.

It was then that Wang's ears caught a low rumbling in the air.

"There!" someone shouted, his accent pegging him as likely British or Australian.

With the huddled mass looking out towards the surrounding ring of mountains on the horizon, Wang's eyes searched the skies as the deep rumble continued to grow louder.

"Shane," called Wang as he caught sight of two faint outlines against the distant haze, a slight grin creeping onto his lips. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"Oh, baby, I certainly am," replied Vansen, no less of a grin gracing her bruised face as the distinct outlines grew even closer. "Those are Hammerheads coming our way."

As if her uttering such were a flare being shot high in the sky, the entire mass of prisoners erupted in an excited cry as the two planes streaked in low directly over the camp, waggling their wings to the throngs of cheering prisoners as they rocketed by.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Hammerhead One-Three-Nine**

"That certainly seemed to get their attention," grinned West as he pulled his Hammerhead into a climbing turn. "Time to see what kind of trouble we can stir up, Hawkes."

"_Copy that_," replied Hawkes, his voice straining a bit under the G-forces the turn was exerting on his body. "_I say we strafe those trucks just outside the perimeter_."

"Go ahead and make a pass, I'll loiter up here as overwatch for any bandits."

"_Copy that, rolling in hot_," replied Hawkes.

Looking out, West watched as Hawkes' Hammerhead nosed-over, pulling around into a perfect glide path on the neat line of trucks parked outside the fence line.

As Hawkes' plane lined up, the cannon mounted below the chin erupted to life, a line of impacts peppering the area around the trucks as several fireballs shot up into the sky from the vehicles themselves.

With his pass complete, Hawkes banked hard left away from the camp, the shadow from his plane streaking across the huddled mass of prisoners jumping up and down excitedly within the encampment.

As Hawkes continued to climb away, a couple of the guard towers around the camp perimeter erupted with hails of tracers that chased the streaking Hammerhead.

"Watch your six, Jack-of-Spades," called West as he watched the tracers rip through the air around Hawkes' plane.

"_No worries_," replied Hawkes casually. "_These mothers couldn't hit the broadside_…"

Just then, West watched as the lines of tracers ripped across Hawkes' left wing, several small puffs of smoke erupting from the impacts, a trail of vapor flowing from the wounded bird as Hawkes yanked his plane into a hard turn in the opposite direction.

"Jack-of-Spades, status?" called West as he watched Hawkes' plane begin to jink back and forth amid the streaking lines of tracers still erupting from the towers.

"_Looks like I got a little too fancy_," replied Hawkes, the dull squeal of his Master Alarm echoing in the background. "_I'm losing fuel and hydraulics in my left wing_."

"Can you punch out?" asked West as he tilted his wing a bit to keep eyes on Hawkes' plane.

"_Yeah, I just always hate this part_," groaned Hawkes as he momentarily leveled out his Hammerhead, skimming in just a couple hundred feet above the wide flat plain where the encampment was. "_This is Jack-of-Spades; Alpha-Mike-Foxtrot; cranking the chicken-switch_."

As West watched the streaming tracers zero back in on Hawkes' level aircraft, the wounded bird shuddering a bit as it absorbed several more hard impacts, a slight puff of smoke erupted around the cockpit module as the explosive bolts holding it in place were blown, the module's ejection rockets blasting it clear as the rest of the airframe began to splinter apart.

As the descent chutes deployed from the ejected module, the rest of the Hammerhead airframe, smoke and flames trailing behind, nosed over, eventually slamming hard into the valley floor in a massive explosion, a plume of black smoke and fire jumping into the sky.

Continuing to make slow circles around the periphery of the valley, West watched as Hawkes module slowly descended to the plain below, a couple light vehicles, presumably filled with Silicates, racing out from the encampment to collect him.

As the vehicles slid to a stop, a plume of dust engulfing them as they disgorged their occupants into a semicircle around the resting cockpit module, West heard a threat alarm erupt from his panel.

Glancing back over at his flight controls, West noted the flashing signal indicating that a SAM had locked onto his aircraft. Instinctively yanking his plane's control yoke hard over, West slammed his throttles full open as he popped some chaff and flares.

As LIDAR lit up with not one but three missiles vectoring in on his plane from the encampment, West continued to jink his plane, the heavy-G maneuvers squeezing his body, his muscles aching as he continued the series of high-speed and highly acrobatic maneuvers.

One of the missiles took the bait on the decoys, veering away harmlessly, the second seemed to lose track as he pitched his nose over into another hard diving turn, but the third held fast on his tail, racing in.

With only seconds left before an inevitable impact, West nosed his plane skyward for a last-minute gain of altitude, reached down between his legs, grasped hold of the ejection handle, and yanked on it, gritting his teeth against the grunt that escaped him as his cockpit module was blasted clear of the Hammerhead airframe.

His head dizzy from exertion against the pounding g-forces of both his evasive maneuvers and the ejection, West teetered on the edge of consciousness as he felt his cockpit module slowly begin to descend beneath the billowing canopy of parachutes.

As he continued to drift, both mentally and physically, West was just barely aware enough to note the thunderous crack and low rumble that echoed around his cockpit module; presumably the sound of the missile impacting and detonating his pilotless Hammerhead airframe.

As he slowly became more and more aware of his surroundings following the utterly jarring experience of ejection, West glanced down and noted his rapidly decreasing altimeter reading.

Taking a deep breath, West braced himself a moment later as the cockpit module landed hard on the valley floor. Tossed around like a ragdoll by the impact, West felt his helmet slam against the cockpit canopy but nevertheless managed to reach out and punch the button that blew the canopy cover clear from the module.

Coughing a bit from the heavy dust cloud surrounding him, West fumbled to release the straps holding him to his seat. As he tossed the straps aside, West reached up and yanked off his helmet, tossing it away as he popped up and jumped out of the cockpit module.

But as his boots landed hard on the ground, a chill went up his spine as he caught the distinct sound of a Silicate modem chirp echo through the air. Taking slow, deliberate breaths, West calmly raised his hands up above his head as he turned around and faced the half-dozen heavily armed AI's steadily walking towards him through the dissipating dust cloud.

As he stood looking down the muzzles of the weapons aimed squarely at his chest, West caught sight of Hawkes in the back of one of the vehicles, his arms bound behind his back, a trickle of blood running down the side of his head from what was no-doubt a butt-stroke wound to his forehead.

As their modems continued to chirp, the tell-tale indication that the Silicates were wordlessly communicating back and forth with one another, three of them quickly stepped forward and all but tossed West to the ground. As one stripped his sidearm away from his hip-holster, the other two wrenched his arms up behind his back and bound his wrists.

Then, with absolutely no pretense of care or gentleness, West was hauled back to his feet and shoved towards one of the two waiting vehicles.

"How're you doing, Hawkes?" called West.

Without warning, one of the Silicates landed a hard butt-stroke squarely in the center of West's back, knocking the air from him as he collapsed to his knees.

"No talking," barked one of the Silicates, a Sabrine EW model, her voice warbling a bit.

As he continued to gasp for breath, West was once again hauled back to his feet and pushed towards the vehicles, the Silicates all but tossing him into the backseat of one of them a moment later. Without a word, the Silicates then loaded themselves back into the vehicles, a large plume of dust being kicked into the air as they started back off across the valley towards the prison camp.

* * *

><p><strong>Prisoner Internment Facility<br>****Kazbek**

"What kind of boot-ass pilots get shot down so easily," muttered Wang derisively, shaking his head slightly as he looked out at the two smoldering plumes rising from the Hammerhead wreckage on the floor of the plain. "They barely even attempted to evade."

Taking a deep breath, Vansen merely shrugged as she and the other assembled prisoners caught sight of the trail of dust being kicked up by the two vehicles ambling their way back towards the camp.

"Presuming they didn't just execute both of the pilots, we'll likely find out soon," she muttered as she watched the trio of Silicates who'd fired the SAM's toss the spent missile tubes onto a refuse pile.

Glancing down at her own hand, Vansen slowly uncurled her clenched fingers and let the sizeable rock she'd been holding fall back to the ground. A good number of the other prisoners around her did likewise. When they'd seen the three Silicates with the SAMs race out and begin aiming in, the prisoners had grabbed the rocks and were poised to throw them in order to try and keep the AI missilemen from getting an accurate lock. But before they'd had a chance to act on that impulse, the Silicates manning the nearest guard towers had swung their mounted machineguns around and aimed in on the gaggle, the heavy muzzles of the weapons pointing their direction more than enough to make each of the prisoners immediately rethink the wisdom of such an act.

Nevertheless, after a few tense minutes of silent waiting, the assembled prisoners watched as the two vehicles which had gone out to the retrieve the downed pilots slid to a stop just outside the fence near the smoldering wreckage of the vehicles one of the Hammerheads had strafed.

With very little in the way of care or concern, the Silicates dismounted and then all but dragged the two bound pilots from the backseats of the vehicles. As the Silicates closed in around their two newest prisoners, another AI emerged from the camp administrative building and walked briskly out past the entry gate towards the scene.

With baited breath, Vansen, Wang and the other assembled prisoners watched as the Silicates shoved both of their new captives to the ground, the taller of the two resisting enough that his defiance was met with a swift butt-stroke against the back of his head, a guttural cry and a curse escaping his lips as he collapsed hard in a plume of dust.

Although they were a couple hundred meters away, as she watched what was taking place, Vansen was gripped by the sense that there was something familiar about the two prisoners, the way they moved, the sound of the voice that had cried out.

Glancing over at Wang, Vansen could tell by his expression, by the way he was taking a few tentative steps closer that he too must have picked up on that familiarity.

"Wang?" she muttered, a tingle working its way up her spine as she once again heard one of the two prisoners bark defiantly at the Silicates.

"No way, Shane," he uttered, shaking his head in naked disbelief as he nevertheless continued to pay rapt attention. "It _can't_ be them."

* * *

><p>"Get them on their feet," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three as he stepped up.<p>

Cocking his head slightly, Camden Nine-Nine-Three simply watched as the armed entourage surrounding the two newest prisoners grabbed hold and all but yanked the two men back to their feet, the taller of the two immediately spitting an indignant amount of blood and sputum directly into the unflinching face of a Brandon IM model.

As the man who'd just spit turned back to face Camden Nine-Nine-Three, he seemed on the verge of hawking up another phlegm projectile when Camden Nine-Nine-Three regarded him with an utterly cold expression.

"That would not be wise," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three, waggling his finger gently in the angry man's face. "Any more insolence will force me to conclude that you are defective and leave me with no alternative but to order your immediate execution."

With the angry man's eyes darting back and forth, from the camp, to the armed guards, and then finally back towards Camden Nine-Nine-Three, the man simply bowed his head, but not his eyes, and spit out the phlegm and blood into the dirt.

"There, you see, we can be reasonable," said Camden Nine-Nine-Three, a cold smile creasing his artificial lips as he began slowly pacing back and forth in front of the two new prisoners. "Of course whether that continues depends on how willing you two are to cooperate."

"West, Nathan, Captain, United States Marine Corps…" began the other prisoner evenly, his eyes staring directly past Camden Nine-Nine-Three.

"Ah-ah, that's not how this works; I didn't say you had permission to speak," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three, again waggling his finger slightly as another of the Silicate guards delivered a staggering blow to the man's abdomen.

Doubling over from the impact, West collapsed to his knees, wheezing heavily as he gasped against the pain for breath.

As he stared down at the crumpled and gasping form of the man who'd identified himself as Nathan West, Camden Nine-Nine-Three slowly kneeled down.

"I truly don't know what I find more interesting," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three as West, a thin layer of dust crusting up around the corners of his mouth, looked back up at the Silicate. "That you had the audacity to attack our encampment with only two planes, or that you are even here in the first place."

As West continued to regard Camden Nine-Nine-Three with an utterly acid glare, the Silicate stood back up and motioned for the other AI guards to pull West back to his feet. As West coughed a bit more dust from his lungs, Camden Nine-Nine-Three looked back over at the other prisoner.

"Now, you _do_ have permission to speak," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three as he looked directly into the eyes of the man who'd been insolent enough to spit in the Brandon IM's face.

"That prisoner referred to him as Hawkes when we captured them," muttered Sabrine EW Five-Nine-Three, her distorted voice skipping a bit.

Silent, the taller prisoner, apparently named Hawkes, simply looked away.

Grinning coolly, Camden Nine-Nine-Three held up his hand as the Brandon IM prepared to deliver what quite likely would have been a fatal blow with the butt of his rifle to the insolent man's head. As Brandon IM slowly lowered his weapon back down, Camden Nine-Nine-Three took a step back.

"What we have here is a failure to communicate," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three, an apparent glitch in his software causing him utter the statement with a decidedly peculiar drawl reminiscent of the American Southern dialect.

Shaking his head slightly, Camden Nine-Nine-Three's smile faded as both of his latest prisoners actually chuckled at his vocal glitch. With one last slap against the side of his own head, Camden Nine-Nine-Three muttered a few words to ensure the glitch had worked its way out of his software and then glared at West and Hawkes.

"I suppose it is good that you two are in such high spirits," began Camden Nine-Nine-Three, his tone somewhat menacing as he regarded the two men. "But let me assure you, I will either break those spirits or I will break your bodies. Either way, I will find out where you two came from."

As both West and Hawkes looked past Camden Nine-Nine-Three, attempting to convey that they were all but ignoring him, the Silicate looked back over at Brandon IM, the half-dried wad of blood and spittle still affixed to shredded synthetic skin on his face.

"Take these two over to the processing center."

* * *

><p>Having worked her way as close to the electrified fence as she dared, Shane Vansen watched as the Silicates began to all but shove what she now clearly saw were West and Hawkes towards the rear of the administrative building, the section of the structure the Silicates euphemistically referred to as their processing center.<p>

In reality, that part of the building was a torture chamber, nothing more, nothing less.

With subdued dread creeping into her mind over what she knew her two former squadron-mates were about to endure, Vansen glanced beside her and saw Wang shaking his bowed head.

As the assembled crowd of prisoners began to slowly disperse, from their perspective the 'show' being more-or-less over, Vansen glanced over at the two nearest guard towers, the Silicates manning them watching dispassionately as the crowd of prisoners slowly spread back out through the encampment.

Then, licking her dry lips, Vansen decided to do something she had scarcely had the courage to do in months; she was going to defy the rules of their Silicate captors, and to hell with the consequences.

Taking a deep breath, Vansen looked back over at West and Hawkes.

"Bulldog!" she shouted, coughing a bit but nevertheless loud enough that her words immediately elicited a response from West and Hawkes.

Even as the two of them were being roughly directed towards the processing building, both men immediately shot a glance her way, their eyes clearly going wide as they caught sight of her and Wang standing there by the fence. In spite of their hands still being bound, both West and Hawkes had to be more-or-less manhandled the rest of the way to the processing center, the Silicates guards all but carrying them the last few meters to the entryway.

"Chesty!" shouted West as he was finally tossed in through the entry into the processing building by the Silicates flanking him

As the entryway slammed closed, Vansen glanced over at the Silicates manning the guard towers, but didn't see anything to indicate they were preparing to respond to her having shouted out, then settled her gaze on Wang.

"I can't believe it's them," he muttered, a slight grin on his face as he looked over at Vansen.

"You know what this means, don't you?" she muttered, making a very deliberate show of turning and leading Wang away from the fence.

"With any luck, it means I can finally find out how well the Cubs are playing this season," smirked Wang as he glanced back over his shoulder at the processing building.

"No," moaned Vansen as she too glanced back over her shoulder, but her attention focusing in on the guard towers. "It means there's a ship nearby."

"You think it's the '_Toga_?" asked Wang evenly as he looked back over at Vansen.

"Has to be," smiled Vansen as she glanced skyward. "If the fleet is really in as bad a shape as we've heard, only Boss Ross would have the cojones to punch this deep into Chig territory."

"So you think it's a rescue mission?" asked Wang pointedly, keeping his voice low in spite of the excitement the idea was sending up his spine.

"Maybe," shrugged Vansen. "All I know is we need to be ready if it is."

"Right," nodded Wang, glancing back around at the crowd of prisoners milling about the encampment. "I'd better try and find 'Phousse."

"Hey, just remember, keep it low-key," muttered Vansen. "The last thing we want is to screw the pooch by tipping the AI's off."

"Will do," replied Wang as he turned and began making his way off through the crowd.

In spite of her entreaty to Wang to remain low-key, Vansen herself was nevertheless finding it difficult to keep her own excitement under control. True, she had only the most circumstantial of reasons to feel a measure of hope, but after so many months of imprisonment it was hard not to be heartened by the arrival of the last two Wildcards.

Now all she could do was hope West and Hawkes survived whatever it was the Silicate interrogators threw their way.

As if to emphasize that fear, a muffled but still clearly blood-curdling scream of pain echoed out from the processing center.

* * *

><p><strong>Prisoner Internment Facility<br>****Kazbek  
><strong>**Two days later**

With the poised muzzles of the machine guns manned by the Silicates in the guard towers ensuring that the gathering cluster of prisoners kept back a respectful distance, the four AI's that had emerged from the processing center dragged the limp forms of Hawkes and West out across the camp's dirt courtyard. With neither West nor Hawkes giving much of a reaction, indeed, for all the watching prisoners knew, the two men might have in fact already been dead, the Silicates tossed their bodies down onto the ground, a light plume of dust settling back down around them as the guards promptly turned and made their way back over to the administrative building.

Once the Silicates had stepped away, a cluster of prisoners, Shane Vansen included, swarmed in around the two unmoving bodies. As the group circled in around West and Hawkes, an Army medic Vansen had become acquainted with, Jack Swiggert, stepped in and quickly checked West and Hawkes for a pulse.

"They're alive," he muttered, looking up at the crowd around him. "Someone help me get them inside."

As a couple more Army personnel stepped forward, Shane likewise made her way closer to Hawkes and West, immediately reaching down and helping to lift West's unmoving form from the dirt. As the cluster of people began carrying the two unconscious Marines towards one of the dilapidated shacks that served as quarters for the prisoners, the entourage of curious onlookers continued to grow. Stepping in through the entryway, the group bearing the limp bodies of West and Hawkes stepped over to a pair of the simple wooden slat shelves euphemistically referred to as bunks, very gently laying the two men out as Doc Swiggert once again leaned in over them and began a more thorough assessment.

After a few minutes, Swiggert stood up, shaking his head slightly as he stepped over towards Vansen.

Having taken a step back to give Swiggert room to work, Vansen looked the medic directly in the eye as he slowly made his way over to her

"These guys are real good friends of mine, Doc," she said evenly, motioning her head over at the still forms of West and Hawkes. "How are they doing?"

Taking a deep breath, Swiggert looked back at Vansen, a somewhat somber look in his eyes.

"Well, Captain, you know as well as I do what their chances for survival are," sighed Swiggert as he glanced back over at West and Hawkes.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Vansen simply nodded.

Regrettably, after so many months in this particularly nasty hell-hole, Vansen most certainly knew the odds.

Every last person in the camp had endured the horrors of the Silicate torture chamber at one point of another. Usually it was during their arrival, the AI's spending as many as two or three days trying to extract whatever information they felt the new arrivals might have. The worst sessions, however, were the one where the Silicates merely picked prisoners out at random, dragging them off, sometimes quite literally kicking and screaming. During those random sessions there were no questions, no pretense that they were tormenting their captives for any other reason than to utterly pulverize the person's will.

No matter the reason, however, for those that survived the torture sessions, it often took several more days, sometimes weeks before they were up and moving again on their own.

But, on more occasions than any of the prisoners would ever wish to recall, the trauma inflicted by the Silicates had proved to be too much to survive for some, the only mercy being that the victims typically never regained consciousness before they succumbed to their wounds.

"Is there anything you can do, Doc?" asked Vansen evenly, already knowing the answer but nevertheless asking anyway.

"I'm afraid it's all on them, Captain," replied Swiggert solemnly. "But from what I'm seeing the AI's were a bit more brutal than usual with them; I really wouldn't hold out much hope if I were you, ma'am."

It was then, to the utterly profound surprise of everyone huddled inside the bunkhouse, Vansen and Swiggert most especially, that Hawkes actually began to lift his hand up, more-or-less motioning for someone to step over next to him.

Rushing back over, Swiggert knelt down beside Hawkes, leaning in close enough that his ear was hovering just above Hawkes' lips. As Hawkes whispered something, his voice so low that only Swiggert was able to hear, the medic leaned back, his expression puzzled as he glanced back over at Vansen.

"What did he say, Doc?" asked Vansen pointedly.

"He asked whether there were any surveillance cameras in here," replied Swiggert, gently shaking his head as he held Vansen's gaze. "Why the hell would he ask that?"

Scowling a bit, Vansen looked around the interior of the bunkhouse and over at some of the other prisoners, the collection of faces around her every bit as curious about the question as she and Swiggert were. But as odd as the question was, it was at least one they had an answer to.

"Tell him, Doc," she replied, waving her hand slightly, more than a touch curious as to why even a pain-delirious Hawkes would ask such a question.

Leaning back in over Hawkes, Swiggert whispered the reply.

"No, there are no cameras or other surveillance devices in the bunkhouses."

"Oh, good," groaned Hawkes, the man shockingly making a very slow but deliberate effort to push himself into a seated position on the wooden bunk.

Startled, Swiggert pretty much collapsed backwards onto the floor as he watched Hawkes gently kick his feet over the edge of the bunk, the action quite plainly taking a lot of effort on Hawkes' part, but nevertheless shockingly within his capabilities.

"West, you heard him; no cams in here," groaned Hawkes as he leaned forward, reaching up with his hands to rub at his temples. "How're you hanging over there, buddy?"

As West let out a low moan, he too began to push himself up from the wood planks, the action clearly taking a bit more concentration and effort than it had for Hawkes.

"Feels like it's hanging a little to the right at the moment," grumbled West as he dropped his legs over the edge of the bunk, his boots falling with heavy thump onto the wooden floorboards. "But I suppose that's what I get for spending most of my life wearing whitey-tighties."

As Hawkes and West sat there on the edges of the bunks, absently rubbing at aches and pains spread throughout their visibly bruised bodies from head-to-toe, Swiggert more-or-less scurried back away from them, the medic acting as though he had suddenly found himself confronted with zombies.

Frankly, Swiggert's reaction was one Vansen herself could fully understand; no one who had endured a two-day torture session from the AI's should have been able to speak, much less sit up on their own, no matter how pained those actions clearly were for West and Hawkes at that moment.

Just then, Wang and Damphouse all but exploded in through the entryway, quickly cutting a path in through the gathered crowd of flabbergasted onlookers.

"Shane, I heard they released West and Hawkes...," began Wang, his voice cutting off abruptly as he noted the shocked look on Vansen's face as she motioned her head over towards Hawkes and West.

"That's _impossible_," sputtered Damphousse as she watched West and Hawkes continue to give themselves a pained rubdown. "How the hell…"

"I don't know," muttered Vansen as she continued to watch what should have been two of her best friends teetering on the edge of Death's doorstep continue to stretch and groan as though they were doing little more than pushing themselves through a hangover, albeit a nasty one.

As Swiggert and the other onlookers continued to watch Hawkes and West, so dumbfounded that they were too paralyzed to do much of anything else, Vansen very quickly stepped over and knelt down in front of Hawkes.

"Coop," muttered Vansen as she looked up into the somewhat confused expression on Hawkes' face.

Although he did little more than stare back at her blankly for a moment, Hawkes nevertheless mustered up a weak grin as it finally dawned on him who it was that was in front of him.

"Shane, is that really you?" he asked simply.

"Hawkes, what the hell is going on?" asked Vansen as she glanced over at the equally disoriented but nevertheless more-coherent-than-he-logically-had-any-right-to-be West.

"Hey West, guess who I found?" called Hawkes as he glanced back over his shoulder at West. "It's Shane, she's here, man."

"Hawkes, my head is pounding enough as it is without you yelling," groaned West as he finally looked up and caught sight of Vansen kneeling beside Hawkes. "Oh, hey Shane, I thought it was you I heard call out 'Bulldog' when we first arrived."

As Hawkes, a quirky grin still creasing his lips, slowly looked back over at Vansen, he suddenly reached out, his arms flopping in around Vansen in a weak but still surprisingly effective bear-hug.

"Good to see you too, Coop," gasped Vansen as she patted Hawkes on the back. "No can you let me go; I'm having a bit of trouble breathing, buddy."

"Oh, sure," replied Hawkes as he slowly let her go.

As he reluctantly did so, Wang and Damphousse stepped up and sat down by the bunks beside Hawkes and West.

"Coop, Nathan, how the hell are you able to move?" asked Damphousse, shaking her head slightly. "You two shouldn't be able to _talk_, much less sit up on your own after two days of torture."

Looking over at Damphousse, West grimaced a bit.

"Two days?" he muttered, a touch of disbelief in his voice. "We were only in there two days?"

"Uh-huh," nodded Vansen, still looking somewhat dubiously into Hawkes' confused expression.

"Felt like a hell of a lot longer than two days," muttered Hawkes, some of the disorientation at last beginning to ebb from his expression.

"Point is, you two are in a hell of a lot better shape than you should be," began Swiggert as he finally broke from his shocked catatonia and grabbed hold of Hawkes' wrist. "How is that possible?"

Brushing aside the medic's continued efforts to check his pulse, Hawkes looked back over at West.

"West, would you go ahead and explain what's going on to this guy so he'll leave me alone?"

Grinning slightly, West managed a weak chuckle, his face contorting a bit as he was gripped by a series of coughs a moment later.

"The docs injected us with some new drug before we flew in," began West, a few more pained coughs escaping him as he looked from Swiggert to Vansen. "It's a slow-release neural inhibitor than blocks the neurotransmitters for pain."

"Okay, your pain was suppressed, but that doesn't mean there isn't any physical damage," countered Swiggert as he again attempted to check Hawkes vitals', at last giving up in light of the InVitro's steadfast resistance.

"Oh, there is," muttered West, flinching as he slowly rotated his left shoulder. "Feels like I was kicked by a mule after falling out of a ten-story building, but at least we're able to function a bit."

"But why did they inject you with the drug in the first place?" asked Wang flatly.

"Because they knew the AI's would torture us when we got here," replied Hawkes as he gasped slightly, one of his arms jumping a bit as the muscles spasmed.

"Wait a second," muttered Vansen as she regarded her newly-arrived companions somewhat suspiciously. "Are you saying you two _intentionally_ got yourselves shot down?"

Although Hawkes continued to focus his attention on whatever aches were wracking his body, West looked over at Vansen and gently nodded his head.

"Don't mind saying I'm having more than a few second thoughts about the idea right now," muttered West as he managed a weak grin. "But yeah, so far everything so far is going just as we'd planned."

Just then, the entry door opened, the dumbfounded crowd around Hawkes and West parting a bit as a rather stern looking man with a dark complexion limped his way forward.

As most everyone in the room more-or-less snapped to attention, the man continued to make his way towards Hawkes and West, his expression mostly unreadable as he looked over at two Marines.

"These are the two pilots who were shot down a couple days ago?" he asked evenly, his deep and heavily accented voice resonating a bit as he slowly clasped his hands behind his back.

"That's affirmative, Colonel," replied Vansen as she turned around to face the man.

"Do we know their names yet?" asked the man as he continued to look at Hawkes and West.

"Captain Nathan West, Fifty-Eighth Squadron, United States Marine Corps, sir," chimed in West as he looked up into the man's stoic expression.

"And you?"

"Captain Cooper Hawkes, Fifty-Eighth Squadron as well, Colonel," replied Hawkes as he too met the man's eyes.

"I am _Sarhang_ Bijan Najafi of the Iranian Air Force, but to make things easier, you may address me as Colonel Najafi," said the man evenly, grinning a bit as he watched Hawkes and West continue to work their aching muscles. "I am the senior-most officer here in the encampment, and in accordance with the IFOR Joint Command Resolutions, I will be acting as your superior officer while you are here."

"Understood, sir," replied West simply as he slowly rotated his arm again.

"I must say, the fact that you two gentlemen appear to be in as good a shape as you do is nothing short of miraculous," continued Colonel Najafi as he slowly seated himself on a bunk opposite of Hawkes. "From what I can recall of the torture session I endured when I first arrived, I assume there is something more at work here than simple American stubbornness."

"Affirmative, Colonel," replied West, grinning a bit in spite of the searing aches that continued to rip at his concentration.

Pausing, West then looked around at the assembled crowd, then over at Vansen, Wang and Damphousse in particular. To be sure, as far as his utterly throbbing body and cloudy mind would allow him to be, West was ecstatic to see his three friends alive in spite of the clear bruises and bone-weary expressions each of them had. Nevertheless, West forced himself to set that excitement aside.

"With respect, sir, there is a matter that we need to discuss with you," began West as he looked back over at Colonel Najafi. "One that is better off discussed in private."

His expression contorting a bit in curiosity, Colonel Najafi nevertheless glanced back over his shoulder at the crowd behind him.

"Give us the room," he said simply.

As the assembled group of prisoners began to slowly, somewhat reluctantly filter out the entryway, Colonel Najafi noted with no small measure of amusement that Vansen, Wang and Damphousse were not following suit.

"Captain Vansen, Lieutenant Wang, Lieutenant Damphousse, did my accent prevent you from understanding my order?" he asked evenly.

"No, sir," replied Vansen evenly as she looked back over at the Colonel. "It's just that Hawkes and West are squadron-mates of ours, we thought…"

"Shane," interrupted West, taking a deep breath as he looked over at her. "Believe me, I'm damned glad to see you three alive, but right now we really need to speak with the Colonel…alone."

Her jaw dropping a bit, Vansen looked over at West, more than a bit speechless. But a moment later, something in West's eyes struck her, some subtle sense of urgency. Hell, if West was being honest that he and Hawkes had intentionally allowed themselves to get shot down knowing full-well that a no-holds-barred torture session would be waiting for them when they hit the ground, then West must really have had something important to tell the Colonel.

Perhaps her hopes that a rescue mission was in the works had been right after-all.

"With your permission, Colonel?" said Vansen evenly as she motioned a still-somewhat hesitant Wang and Damphousse to follow.

"You are dismissed, Captain Vansen," replied Colonel Najafi with a slight nod.

With the three of them casting a quick glance back over at Hawkes and West, Vansen, Wang and Damphousse all quickly stepped out of the entryway back into the late-afternoon sun.

"What the hell was that about?" sputtered Wang as he glared back over at the closed door. "What the hell could be so important that West would have _us_ shuffled out like that?"

"If West and Hawkes let themselves get shot down, then there must be a reason," muttered Damphousse as she too looked back over at the closed door, shaking her head slightly. "Something must be in the works for them to go through all that trouble just to get here."

"Maybe," sighed Vansen, slowly crossing her arms as she too watched the door. "But if there is, I want you two to keep any speculation about what it could be to yourselves, understood?"

"But Shane, you yourself suggested their strike the other day might be a prelude to a rescue mission," interjected Wang as he looked back over at Vansen.

"And if it was, the last thing I want is to risk having it blown because the damned AI's overheard us gossiping about it," shot back Vansen as she looked Wang directly in the eye.

"Right," sighed Wang as he returned his gaze to the closed door. "Still, there is one thing I am curious about."

"What's that?" asked Vansen, wary that Wang might not let the issue of a possible rescue go in spite of her warning.

"Did I hear them right in there?" he asked, smirking a bit. "Did Hawkes and West say they'd both been promoted to Captain?"

"Certainly looks that way," grinned Vansen, tilting her head slightly. "All I can say is God help the Marine Corps if it's true."

* * *

><p>"Are you two certain about this?" asked Colonel Najafi evenly as he sat staring somewhat blankly across at West and Hawkes.<p>

"Absolutely, Colonel," nodded West.

Taking a deep breath, Colonel Najafi let his gaze drop a bit, absently reaching down to massage his permanently injured knee as he mulled over what West and Hawkes had just told him.

"You two do realize the Silicates are likely to torture you again if they learn this information," muttered Colonel Najafi evenly as he looked solemnly across at the two men. "And no matter what drugs you have in your system, that torture will likely be fatal."

"As you yourself know, Colonel, risk is part of the game when one wears the uniform," replied West, smirking a bit.

"It never ceases to amaze me how cavalier you Americans can be sometimes," chuckled Colonel Najafi. "Sometimes I think you have all spent too much time in that Las Vegas of yours; always so certain you will come out on top no matter how recklessly you gamble."

"You might be right, Colonel," chuckled West. "Price we pay I suppose for being the descendents of convicts, rebels, religious malcontents, slaves and dispossessed immigrants."

As he again chuckled a bit at West's comment, Colonel Najafi gently shook his head.

"I suppose it would also explain your squadron name as well then, yes?" muttered Najafi as he pointed over at the somewhat tattered patch affixed to Hawkes' flightsuit. "The 'Wildcards'."

"Have you ever been to Vegas, Colonel?" asked Hawkes, canting his head slightly.

"Once, yes; a joint IFOR training exercise at your Nellis Air Force Base," nodded Najafi.

"Well then, sir, you know that all it takes to break a losing streak in blackjack is for the dealer to pass you the exact two cards you need from the deck."

Chuckling a bit, Colonel Najafi looked back over at West.

"Am I to infer from that decidedly Americentric analogy that you two gentlemen are the so-called 'perfect cards' that have been shuffled into play?" he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

Grinning, West simply nodded his head.

"Then I suppose you two can understand why I prefer chess; it's much more civilized."

* * *

><p><strong>Prisoner Internment Facility<br>****Kazbek  
><strong>**Five days later**

As he stepped out of the bunkhouse and began making his way across the dirt courtyard towards the perimeter fence, Captain Nathan West's still-aching legs reduced his movements to more-or-less a hobble as he looked out at the nearby mountain peaks, the morning hues of the coming sunrise framing the peaks with pink and orange tones.

Taking a deep breath, West glanced over towards the nearest guard towers, the Silicates manning them paying him relatively little attention as he moved.

As he turned to look back out towards the wide plain stretching towards the distant mountain range, the burned-out hulks of the transport trucks Hawkes had strafed still sitting just outside the fence, West felt his body twinge with pain.

With the suppressant drug he'd been injected with having long since worn off, West was left to muddle through the lingering effects of the 'physical damage' Doc Swiggert had spoken of only a few days ago. Cuts, bruises and a few electrical burns aside, the predominance of his suffering came in the form of the deep muscle aches that still gripped his body occasionally. Indeed, even after spending the last five days recovering, every muscle in his wiry frame still felt every bit as worn and weak as they had following the series of humps he and Hawkes had gone on during their brief training stint at Twenty-Nine Palms.

In retrospect, West guessed the reason behind being ordered to walk those many long miles through the California desert had been to get him ready psychologically for the task of pushing his body through the bone-deep level of tired he was feeling right now.

Nevertheless, each step, each movement took a very deliberate amount of effort.

As he stood there, more-or-less watching the sunrise, West reached down and began to gently rub his fingers against the muscles on the inside of his forearm.

"West."

Glancing away from the wide plain, West slowly turned around and saw Vansen and Damphousse making their way towards him. Phousse had been in camp most of the week, little more than hovering over both West and Hawkes as they lay convalescing in the bunkhouse, but Vansen and Wang had only just arrived back last night from another stint in the Kazbek mines.

"Morning," he muttered simply as he turned and looked back out across the plain.

Sidling up on either side of him, Vansen and Damphousse tried to be nonchalant, but even out of the corner of his eye, West could see they were more-or-less brimming with questions.

"Spit it out," he muttered, grinning slightly as he gently shook his head.

"Well, you've been here seven days now and this is the first real chance I've had to talk to you," muttered Vansen, her voice barely a whisper as she feigned watching the sunrise. "I'm just wondering what the plan is?"

"What plan?" asked West simply as he again began to gently massage the muscles in his forearm.

"Whatever plan you and Hawkes got yourselves shot from the sky to carry out," chuckled Damphousse, likewise keeping her voice to barely a whisper. "I mean, since you two came in by Hammerhead, there must be a ship nearby, right?"

Glancing away from the plain, West again glanced over at the Silicates manning the nearest guard towers.

"Where's Wang?" asked West evenly as he turned around to face Vansen and Damphousse.

"He's talking with Hawkes on the other side of the camp," replied Damphousse, pointing back over her shoulder casually as she did so.

"Damn, I never thought I'd see him alive again," muttered West, dropping his head slightly as he grinned.

"Gee thanks, Nathan," shot back Damphousse, her tone somewhat indignant. "What about Shane and me?"

"That's not what I meant, Phousse," replied Nathan simply, shaking his head. "Last time I saw you two, you were making planetfall in the ISSCV cockpit module. But Wang; when I saw that crippled Chig fighter slam into the cargo container he was in, I was certain he was a goner."

"Airtight doors were sealed," replied Vansen evenly. "The Chig fighter hit the aft end; he survived in the forward section until a Chig transport crew took him prisoner."

"That same transport picked us up as well soon after," continued Damphousse, her tone still a bit perturbed. "Damn, Nathan, it kind of pisses me off to think that you didn't give me or Shane a second thought after we went down, especially since we were in the middle of rescuing _your_ girlfriend when we got blasted from the sky."

Looking over into Damphousse's clearly irritated expression, little more than fuming as she shook her head in livid disbelief, West cleared his throat.

"Phousse, Hawkes and I _did_ think about you guys," said Nathan, choking a bit. "Hell, Hawkes practically set up camp Shane's bunk after you went down."

"And what about you, Captain West?" asked Vansen pointedly. "Damphousse is right, you'd have to be a hell-of-a-lot colder a son-of-a-bitch than I'd thought for you to be acting like this; shuffling us out of the bunkhouse, barely speaking to us before Wang and I were sent back down into the mines. Honestly, Nathan, did you ever really give one good God-damned about us, or was it always just about getting Kylen back?"

Looking back over at Vansen, West met her angry gaze with little short of a glare.

"Sorry, I guess I forgot about how the war simply stopped after you two went down," he barked, his tone loud enough to draw the attention of a few of the other prisoners nearby. "Or maybe it was that really relaxing vacation trip to Maui the rest of us took after Roundhammer was cancelled. Oh, wait, that wasn't Maui, no it was some worthless chunk of volcanic rock at the ass end of nowhere. Really lovely place though, got a Hammerhead blasted out from under me there too, but no worries, there were plenty of things to do once I was stranded on the ground with the grunts, just had to spend every sleepless moment avoiding Chig patrols while they hunted down and slaughtered us one at a time."

With his rebuke apparently hitting home, both Vansen and Damphousse looked away rather sheepishly from the clearly angered West.

"We're sorry, Nathan, we didn't know," muttered Damphousse, shaking her head slightly.

Taking a deep breath West looked somewhat awkwardly down at the ground, kicking at a rock in frustration in spite of the surging ache the action sent coursing through his leg.

"Yeah, well, something else you didn't know," he continued, his tone losing a bit of its edge. "After I was declared missing, my father suffered a heart attack and died, and as for the 'girlfriend' you two helped rescue…"

Shaking his head, West let his voice trail off, snorting a bit as he looked back over at Vansen and Damphousse.

"Did something happen to Kylen?" asked Vansen, her eyes watching West intently.

Taking a deep breath, West held her gaze.

"Oh, she's fine," he replied simply, again bowing his head a bit. "She's married to another man and pregnant with his child last I saw her, but other than that, things turned out okay."

"Oh, Nathan, that…" began Vansen, her voice trailing off a bit as she reached over and grabbed hold of West's shoulder.

"What, 'sucks'?" he interjected, looking back up into her eyes. "Yeah, it does, but not nearly so much as two of my best friends trying to lecture me on what happens when people give up on one another. Just do me a favor and keep in mind; bad as this place has been for you guys, there's still been plenty of 'suck' to go around for the rest of us out there too."

Nodding her head a bit, Vansen took a deep breath.

"Noted," sighed Vansen as she reached gently squeezed West's shoulder. "Sorry we doubted you, my friend."

"Let's just agree it's been a fucked-up war all around," muttered West, smirking a bit.

"Agreed," smiled Vansen as she let go of West's shoulder.

"No arguments here," shrugged Damphousse, smiling weakly.

For a few moments, silence held sway over the trio, West for his part seeming particularly distracted as he casually rubbed at his forearm muscles with his fingers.

Finally, taking a deep breath, West looked back up at Vansen and Damphousse.

"Now, what were you two saying before we got sidetracked onto that horrible little tangent?"

Glancing about the area, but most especially over towards the Silicates watching the courtyard from the two nearest guard towers. Vansen gently motioned with her head for West and Damphousse to follow her. With their pace set by West's hobble, the three of them began slowly making their way back across the dirt courtyard.

"I was asking what the plan for getting out of here was," muttered Vansen, casting a keen eye back over her shoulder at the Silicates in the guard towers.

"Shane, you know better than to ask me about the mission Hawkes and I were sent here on," sighed West, keeping his tone low as the continued to make their way past one of the guard towers.

"Yeah, Shane," chimed in Damphousse. "A couple of days ago, you ordered Wang and I to stay mum on the whole issue, why the change of heart?"

"We almost lost seven people in another cave-in down in the mines this week," replied Shane, her tone low as she shook her head slightly, a terrified shiver working its way along her spine. "Watching something like that kinda changes a person's perspective a bit."

"Maybe it did," muttered West as he looked over at Vansen's somber expression. "Trouble is that for all I know you two are Chigs in disguise."

"We could say the same thing about you," countered Vansen evenly, her attention snapping back over to West. "But if it helps put your mind at ease, I'd be glad to recount to you the time we found Hawkes with that he-she magazine."

"And I suppose I could bring up the night I accidently walked in on you while you were…" began West, smirking a bit as he watched Vansen's eyes go wide midway through his sentence.

"Ah, stop right there," she interjected, her expression more than a touch mortified as she pointed a stern finger directly at West's face. "I don't think Phousse needs to hear about what you _think_ you caught me doing that night."

"Oh, come on, Shane," grinned West, enjoying the grilling he was giving Vansen a bit more than he probably should have been. "You were moaning way too loud for you to have been doing anything else."

Closing her eyes, literally embarrassed into silence, Vansen became visibly flushed.

"Shane, why are you so embarrassed?" muttered Damphousse, rolling her eyes a bit as she glanced over at Vansen. "It's not like we all haven't done it at some point to break the tension."

Coming to a dead stop, Vansen looked over at West and Damphousse, utterly incensed by the amusement they were clearly having at her expense.

"Look can we just drop it?" she sputtered, her exasperated voice squeaking a bit. "Point taken, we're all who we say we are, now can we move on please?"

"Alright, I will," chuckled West, looking down towards the ground as he stifled the grin from his face. "Yeah, there's a plan in the works; Hawkes and I were sent down as recon."

"Speak of the devil," muttered Damphousse as she motioned wither head over at Hawkes and Wang making their way towards the courtyard.

Much like West, Hawkes was taking each step very deliberately as he made his way through one of the alleyways between a couple bunkhouses. Nevertheless, after a few moments both of the other Wildcards had joined up with West, Vansen and Damphousse.

Pausing for a moment as they stepped up, Hawkes looked over very deliberately at West, for whatever reason, nodding his head slightly as he did so.

Taking a breath, West looked over at Wang.

"You know the Cubs really suck this season," said West flatly.

"Why don't you do me a favor and go piss on that electric fence over there?" countered Wang, scowling slightly.

Grinning, West reached gave Wang's shoulder a gentle pat in spite of the ache that passed up his arm into his shoulder as he did so.

"Just wanted to make sure it was really you, my friend," muttered West.

"Oh, hah-hah," sighed Wang, crossing his arms slightly but nevertheless smiling a bit. "Missing the season pisses me enough already, Nathan, I really don't need you giving me crap about it."

"Okay, Hawkes," muttered West, glancing back over his shoulder for a moment at the Silicate in the nearest guard tower. "Shane wants to know what the plan is."

Pausing to look over at the tower himself, Hawkes leaned in a bit towards Vansen.

"Sorry, Shane, can't tell you," grinned Hawkes.

"What do you mean you can't tell me?" sputtered Vansen, leaning in a bit herself towards Hawkes.

"Well what good is having a plan if the AI's torture you and you spill?" shrugged Hawkes.

"That depends, how much did _you_ tell them while they were torturing _you_?" asked Vansen, poking a very deliberate finger against Hawkes' chest, almost instantly eliciting the pained response from the InVitro she'd intended.

"Fine," barked Hawke as he shoved Vansen's hand away and gently massaged at the spot Vansen had poked. "Go ahead and tell them, West."

Leaning in a bit, West looked over into Wang, Vansen and Damphousse' expectant faces.

"You were right, Shane," he began, making a few cursory glances around as he spoke. "The _Saratoga_ and _Enterprise_ are holding out near the system's asteroid belt."

"We were sent down to spread the word so that when they launch their attack everyone here will be ready to make a break for it," added Hawkes, keeping his voice low as he too glanced around a bit.

"When is the attack supposed to start?" asked Damphousse.

"Let's see, we've been here seven days now," muttered West, looking away somewhat distantly as he seemed to ponder something. "So that means the hammer is coming down in three days, full airstrike right before sunset."

As Wang, Vansen and Damphousse all closed their eyes, hope welling up within them, West glanced back over at Hawkes as the InVitro in turn motioned his head off to the side.

Looking over in the direction Hawkes had indicated, West caught site of half a dozen heavily-armed Silicates trudging their way through the courtyard.

"Oh, this doesn't look good," muttered West as he realized the AI's were coming directly towards the Wildcards.

Looking up, Wang, Vansen and Damphousse likewise caught sight of the Silicates but were more-or-less frozen out of circumstance; trying to run would have been pointless, where would they have been able to hide inside a prison camp?

As the Silicates stepped up and encircled them, most of the other prisoners in the area nearby very quickly giving the scene a wide berth, the Silicate known as Camden Nine-Nine-Three stepped closer, an utterly cold grin on his face.

"You five will come with us now or you will die where you stand," said Camden Nine-Nine-Three flatly.

"I guess you guys really aren't much for small talk," muttered West derisively as he slowly raised his arms over his head and began walking off towards the administrative building.

As the five Wildcards fell into step behind West, Camden Nine-Nine-Three motioned for the Silicates to form up on either side of the Marines, their weapons quite plainly pointed inwards at the members of the Five-Eight.

As the Silicates guided them past the assembling throngs of prisoners, clearly leading them towards the torture chamber that was the camp's processing center, Camden-Nine-Nine-Three quickly stepped out ahead of the column, opening the entry door, grinning as though he were some sadistic doorman.

Filing in one at a time, the Silicate guards all but surrounding them again once inside, West, Hawkes, Vansen, Wang and Damphousse simply stood there as Camden Nine-Nine-Three stepped over in front of them.

As the five Wildcards stood there, hands clasped tightly behind their heads, little more than glaring over at the Silicate overseer, Camden Nine-Nine-Three once again curled his lips in an utterly chilling grin.

"It has come to our attention that an attack is preparing to hit our little encampment," began Camden Nine-Nine-Three evenly as his decidedly unnatural cross-haired eyes passed over them. "While we admit there was not very much useful information we could retrieve from the flight recorders on your crashed planes, new information has come our way that confirms what we have suspected all along; Hawkes and West are here to help coordinate a rescue effort."

"Sorry, chief, but you're wrong," replied West, making a deliberate show of shrugging his shoulders. "We just took a wrong turn; space is just so damned big, it's easy to get lost when you're flying around out there."

Without responding, Camden Nine-Nine-Three glanced over at a doorway towards the back of the room. As a low Silicate-modem chirp echoed out through the air, another Silicate entered in through the doorway, all but dragging the visibly bleeding Colonel Bijan Najafi.

"I had no choice," he muttered simply. "They were threatening to execute half of the prisoners in the camp unless I told them."

Looking back over at the stunned but silent Wildcards, Camden Nine-Nine-Three's grin faded, his expression stern, but also a bit mocking.

"Oh, now, don't think too harshly of the Colonel," began Camden Nine-Nine-Three as he stepped in closer towards West and Hawkes. "He was merely doing what he felt best to safeguard the other prisoners; it was you two who put them in jeopardy by trying to stage an attack in the first place."

"What attack?" sputtered Hawkes. "Our flight systems got screwed up, we got lost…"

"A lie that ignores one undeniable truth," snapped Camden Nine-Nine-Three. "Hammerhead fighters do not have the range to reach Kazbek on their own; for you to be here, a carrier _must_ be nearby. But fortunately for us, we do not have to rely on breaking through your lies in order to find it."

It was then that, to everyone's surprise, most especially Wang's and Vansen's, that Damphousse slowly lowered her arms and stepped over beside Camden Nine-Nine-Three.

"And what did they tell you?" asked Camden Nine-Nine-Three as he stared dispassionately back over into the shocked faces before him.

"They said there were a recon element for two ships holding position near the asteroid belt," said Damphousse evenly as she looked back over at West and Hawkes. "The ships are going to attack the camp in three days with a full airstrike to free the prisoners."

"Oh, well, we can't have that," muttered Camden Nine-Nine-Three mockingly. "We _really_ need them here to mine the ore for us."

"Vanessa, what the fuck?" sputtered Wang, naked disbelief in his tone as he looked over at Damphousse.

"Phousse, how could you?" growled Vansen angrily, her body tensing as though she were preparing to lunge at Damphousse.

"Let it go, Shane," muttered West as he gently shook his head at Damphousse.

"But, West, she just blew the whole plan!" burst Hawkes, dropping his arms away from his head.

"It doesn't matter," snapped West, dropping his own hands away from his head as well as he looked over at Hawkes. "Command knew this plan wouldn't work, that's why they sent _us_ down here."

"What are you talking about?" yelled Hawkes, throwing his arms wide as he stepped closer to West.

"God, I knew Tanks were stupid, but even you would have to be pretty damned thick to not be picking up on this one, Hawkes," growled West as he stood practically nose-to-nose with Hawkes. "They didn't want to bother with a court-martial over Roundhammer, it would have been a political embarrassment, so instead they just dropped us off down here to die; hell the _Saratoga_ probably left the region right after we launched."

"No, you're wrong," burst Hawkes, shoving Nathan slightly.

"Keep your hands off me you filthy Tank," snapped West as he shoved back at Hawkes.

Then, before anyone could react, Hawkes grabbed hold of West and all but tossed him bodily back towards the entryway. As West's tumbling body slammed into the simple door, it gave way, spilling him back out into the courtyard as Hawkes, his actions in no way impeded by the Silicate guards who'd been standing menacingly around the room, lunged out and jumped on top of West.

Their attention caught by the commotion, the rest of the prisoners in the courtyard quickly began making their way over, keeping far enough back that the Silicates in the towers didn't gun them down, but still close enough to watch while West and Hawkes continued to grapple with one another.

As Camden Nine-Nine-Three slowly made his way back outside, impassively watching the spectacle of West and Hawkes rolling around in one another's grip in the dirt, he casually motioned for the Silicate guards to bring the others back outside as well.

Grabbing hold of Wang and Vansen, the Silicates pulled them outside and pushed them up against the wall of the processing center as West and Hawkes continued to struggle with one another for leverage.

Then, much to the surprise of both Wang and Vansen, both Damphousse and Colonel Najafi were likewise shoved up against the wall beside them.

"Are you two done?" called Camden Nine-Nine-Three evenly as he motioned over at the Silicate guards standing with their muzzles pointed squarely at Wang, Vansen, Damphousse and Najafi.

Pausing mid-swing, Hawkes glanced back down at West.

"I don't think he's buying it," said Hawkes as he continued to take deep, heavy breaths. "I told you he wouldn't buy it."

"Well, it was worth a try," sighed West as Hawkes slowly got up from on top of him.

As both West and Hawkes, now covered head-to-toe in a liberal amount of dust, stood back up, Camden Nine-Nine-Three regarded them with an unnaturally expressionless countenance.

"That's the problem with you Carbonites," began Camden Nine-Nine-Three. "You're _predictable_; you think you're being random, but in the end, you're not; what did you honestly think you'd be able to accomplish with that little display?"

As he stood there, taking deep breaths, West chuckled a bit, reaching up to gently rub the muscle on the inside of his forearm as he glanced over at Hawkes.

"Well, to be honest, we only needed to accomplish one thing," said West, still grinning as he looked back over at Camden Nine-Nine-Three.

"And what is that?" asked Camden Nine-Nine-Three evenly, about as unimpressed by the bravado West was displaying as a machine could be.

"We just needed to get you back outside," muttered West, chuckling as Camden Nine-Nine-Three canted his head slightly, his demeanor a curious pantomime of confusion.

Just then, overhead, a sharp series of loud pops echoed out through the air.

As West stood there, his grin widening, he watched as Camden Nine-Nine-Three visibly flinched, his limbs twitching slightly as the Silicate administrator slowly looked down at the object now protruding from his chest.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Landing Zone ****Balincarin  
><strong>**500 kilometers due East of Kazbek Internment Facility  
><strong>**Moments before**

_Seren_ Ariella Livni, Battery Commander for her detachment of the _Ra'am_ Artillery Battalion of the Israeli Defense Forces slowly raised her right arm directly above her head. With that as their signal, the men and women in her unit quickly backed away from the neat row of hyper-velocity surface-to-surface missile launchers.

Sitting nearby, their engines still screaming at high-idle, were the ten Colonial 'Warthog' heavy dropships that had deposited her unit into the LZ only a few minutes ago. Using their fantastic, at least to _Seren_ Livni's mind, faster-than-light capability, the craft bearing Livni and her teams had jumped instantly from a point in deep-space to within a few hundred meters of Kazbek's surface, low enough that they'd been able to bypass the orbital defense satellite network and were masked from enemy LIDAR detection by the surrounding terrain.

As the Colonial Warthogs settled into the LZ, codenamed Balincarin, the rear loading ramps of the craft had dropped open, instantly disgorging the members of her detachment out into the low-lying valley. In rapid order, the men and women under her command spread out through the LZ, an escort team of Indian _Gatak_ Commandos quickly encircling the area as the troops in her Battery began assembling the individual missile-launcher components.

Within two minutes of the ramps dropping, just two seconds shy of record time, all of the launcher assemblies had been prepped and wirelessly linked into the master fire-control unit lying at her feet. After three minutes, the first salvo of disposable ordnance tubes had been locked into place; four missiles per launcher, eight launchers in all for a total of thirty-two rounds, each one aimed and ready to be sent down-range towards the enemy encampment.

As the lights on the indicator board of the master fire-control console all flashed green, indicating that there was a good target lock and that all launch motors were primed and ready to fire, _Seren_ Livni made a wide sweeping motion with her left arm and then extended her left thumb up as she held her left arm directly out at her side. Looking over as her troops, Livni watched as each of the eight individual team commanders held their left hands high and likewise gave her a thumbs up, their huddled teams poised several meters away behind each of their launchers. With her right arm still poised high above her head, Livni used her right thumb to pop open the safety cover over the thumb safety of the firing trigger in her hand. Pressing down with her thumb on the safety button, _Seren_ Livni dropped to one knee as she watched her individual battery teams reflexively cover their ears. Glancing down at her fire-control board one last time, noting that each of the indicator lights for the loaded missiles was still green, Livni gently slipped her finger in over the firing trigger and pulled.

Instantly, the air around LZ Balincarin exploded, huge clouds of dust kicking up into the air as the launch motors on all thirty-two missile fired with a deafening roar. In a blinding flash, each of the missiles blasted clear of the launcher assemblies and rocketed away, crashing through the sound-barrier as they arced high into the sky towards their targets.

With the projectiles now racing towards their designated targets, _Seren_ Livni watched with the utmost of professional satisfaction as her teams promptly raced forward through the settling dust-clouds and feverishly began breaking-down the launchers with highly-practiced efficiency.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****US Marine Corps V/STOL Light Attack Squadron (VMLA)-169  
><strong>**100 kilometers due North of Kazbek Internment Facility**

With his AV-One-Three-Nine Shoshone gunship's engines screaming at high idle, Warrant Officer Pete "Firefly" Levinson sat gently flexing his fingers around the ship's control stick while his forward-seated Weapons Officer, Warrant Officer Sam "Dawg" Kennel ran through a series of final checks on the weapon systems.

The 'why' of his squadron being chosen for this mission was simple; VMLA-One-Six-Nine, the 'Vipers', was the only Shoshone-equipped squadron trained and certified in the new gunships ready for battlefield deployment.

The 'how' of their deployment to Kazbek, however, had been a bit trickier.

With their Shoshone gunships little more than magnetically 'strapped' beneath some of the Colonial utility craft known as 'Raptors', the surprisingly nimble Colonial ships had used their unique Faster-Than-Light technology to jump past the orbital defenses right into Kazbek's lower atmosphere.

Although the experience of instantly moving from the serene calm of open space to the jarring roar of atmospheric turbulence in the blink of an eye had been more than a touch harrowing for the Marine aircrews strapped into their gunships beneath the Raptors, the insertion had nevertheless proved successful, the Colonial craft promptly severing their magnetic holds once the gunships signaled they were ready to fly on their own.

As the Colonial Raptors jumped back away into open space, the Marine gunships had very quickly dropped down to the nap of the earth, weaving in and around the mountainous terrain to avoid detection as they charged in and deftly landed at their the final assembly area one-hundred klicks due North of the target.

Now, with the morning sun beginning to peak over the horizon, the Marine pilots waited anxiously for the go-signal to execute their attack.

Looking out to his left at the line of Shoshone's poised on the ground, Levinson felt his stomach fluttering with anticipation.

It wasn't that this was his first firefight, indeed, far from it; he'd been charging in and out of scrapes with the Chigs since day one of the war. In fact, there was not a single member of his unit that wasn't a blooded veteran, just one more reason that had been cited when they'd been chosen for this mission.

In fact, the only real unknown was the Shoshone gunships themselves. Designed with many of the hard-learned lessons of the war in mind, the ships were rugged, stealthy and armed to the teeth, able to rip up enemy real-estate with either their chin-mounted cannon or the assortment of guided-missile ordnance tucked within the recessed weapons-bays.

They were good ships, agile and tough, but that didn't change the fact that this would be their first actual use in live combat.

Taking a deep breath, Levinson looked back over at his digital displays, saw nothing amiss, then closed his eyes, and as he'd done countless times before, whispered a silent prayer.

"_Vipers, this is Pagan_."

Snapping his eyes back open, Levinson tightened his grip around the control stick and throttle, holding his breath as the voice of Viper squadron's CO, Captain Sara "Pagan" Temple, filtered in over the squadron freq through the speakers in his helmet.

"_Ball is in play; our signal is Blackjack_."

His heart skipping a beat, Levinson looked over and watched as one-by-one, the poised Shoshone gunships practically leapt skyward in sequence.

Looking back at his own panel, Levinson cleared his throat.

"You ready up there, Dawg?"

"Weapons hot, fangs out; let's do this," replied his Weaps-O.

Without another word, Warrant Officer Levinson slammed the throttles of his nimble Shoshone gunship wide open.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Strike Element '**_**Zaytsev**_**'  
><strong>**Spetsnaz GRU 10th (Mountain) Detached Special Operations Brigade  
><strong>**300 meters due South of Kazbek Internment Facility**

With the barest hint of a satisfied smile, truly all the external sign of emotion anyone but his beloved wife was ever likely to behold from him, _Práporshchik_ Vitaly Bekhterev took a very slow but deliberate breath as he looked across the flat plain at the encampment.

Considering the fact that his four-person team had just spent the better part of a week little more than low-crawling their way in from a landing zone just behind one of the many mountains that encircled the valley, _Práporshchik_ Bekhterev felt that his sense of satisfaction, subdued as it was, was nevertheless wholly justified.

Not that his highly trained team hadn't had at least some help getting into position.

First had come the insertion by Colonial transport, the admittedly amazing little craft being able to jump from a point in deep space down within the atmosphere; an impressive display of both technology and piloting even by Russian standards.

But, once Bekhterev and his team were on the ground, it had been the innovations dreamt up in his own beloved nation that had worked to ensure the success of his mission and the survival of his team.

For this mission, Bekhterev and the other three members of his team had been issued the latest generation of the Russian-designed Bio-Suppressive Active-Camouflage System.

Dubbed 'Shimmer Gear' by their seemingly metaphorically-obsessed American comrades, the system consisted of a hermetically-sealed full body suit and helmet that suppressed the infra-red signature of the human body via a system of micro-tubules containing flowing coolant, the heat energy bled from the body being stored in thermal batteries to help power other systems on the suit.

While the hermetical nature of the suit already prevented the airborne release of sweat or pheromones, prior to donning the gear, the wearer received several specialized drugs and had dermal nutritive supplements affixed to the skin that eliminated the need to eat, and subsequently, the need to defecate. Hydration was accomplished by the suit collecting urine via a catheter and sweat via evaporative wicking. Both liquids were then filtered and reintroduced into the body via intravenous tubes.

Finally, there was a layer of superconductive filaments woven into the exterior fabric of the suit that bent light slightly when charged. Though nowhere near powerful enough to create true invisibility, they nevertheless served to break-up the outline of a human form enough that an AI's logic processors merely dismissed what their optics picked up as a heat-mirage.

It was this last and admittedly astronomically expensive feature that had given rise to the American's sobriquet.

But what couldn't be argued over was that the system was effective, enough so that Bekhterev and his team were now only a scant three-hundred meters from the encampment, the Silicates manning the nearby perimeter towers nowhere near the wiser to their presence.

As he continued to watch the activity inside the camp, the rising sun over the mountains shining its first rays onto the assembled mass of prisoners milling about in the courtyard, the inner-cochlear radio receiver implanted in his inner ear buzzed to life.

As the simple ultra-low frequency Morse-code transmission dotted-and-dashed its way through his consciousness, Bekhterev slowly looked over at his second in command, _Starshiná_ Matvei Dezhnyov, the man's lips beginning to grin as Bekhterev's trained mind translated the series of Morse code–tones into words.

"_Artillery and gunship support in place; operation signal is Blackjack_."

Then, glancing over at the other two members of his team, _Serzhánt_ Alyona Bodrova and _Serzhánt_ Stanislav Kovalenko, Bekhterev gently nodded.

As the American's would doubtless say, it was now or never.

Looking back over at the encampment, Bekhterev kept his eyes on the nearest guard tower as he slowly began to unzip the 'Shimmer Gear' weapon bag he was cradling, his hand slipping inside and closing around the grip of his encased rifle.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Prisoner Internment Facility  
><strong>**Kazbek**

"That's the problem with you Carbonites," began Camden Nine-Nine-Three. "You're _predictable_; you think you're being random, but in the end, you're not; what did you honestly think you'd be able to accomplish with that little display?"

As he stood there, taking deep breaths, West listened to dots and dashes of the Morse-code strike order come in over the inner-cochlear radio receiver in his ear.

Letting out a chuckle, West looked over at Hawkes, the glimmer in the InVitro's eye indicating that he'd heard it as well.

Gently rubbing the muscle in his forearm, West cracked open the last vial of the adrenal stimulant that had been subcutaneously implanted before he and Hawkes had launched.

"Well, to be honest, we only needed to accomplish one thing," said West, his lips still grinning as he felt his senses sharpen, the ache in his muscles ebbing away as the adrenal stimulant kicked in.

"And what is that?" asked Camden Nine-Nine-Three evenly, about as unimpressed by the bravado West was displaying as a machine could be.

"We just needed to get you back outside," muttered West, chuckling as he heard the ultra-low frequency Morse transmission that said the missile barrage was screaming their way at hypersonic speed.

As he stood there looking at Camden Nine-Nine-Three, the Silicate administrator canting his head slightly, his demeanor a curious pantomime of confusion, a series of loud, sharp pops echoed out overhead.

While Vansen, Wang, Damphousse and Colonel Najafi all visibly flinched at the sound echoing out across the courtyard, West and Hawkes stood ramrod straight, knowing full well that it meant the barrage of missiles had just deployed their air-brake vanes, snapping to subsonic speed as the missile casings themselves broke away, the independently guided submunitions inside blossoming out, homing in on the wireless modem signals being emitted by the Silicates.

As West stood there, his grin widening, he watched as Camden Nine-Nine-Three visibly flinched, his limbs twitching slightly as the Silicate administrator slowly looked down at the object protruding from his chest.

Behind him, the other Silicates that had Vansen, Wang, Damphousse and Colonel Najafi lined up against the wall were likewise struck, the impaled projectiles sending a massive electrical pulse through their AI bodies, overloading their motor control circuits.

As Camden Nine-Nine-Three and the Silicate guards all collapsed in slightly-smoking heaps to the ground, West and Hawkes leapt forward, snatching up some of the Silicate weapons as they quickly shuffled their psychologically-stunned comrades back inside the building.

"West, what the hell was that?" burst Wang as he collapsed against the inside wall for cover.

"Stage one," snapped West simply as he ducked down just inside the entryway and aimed the rifle he'd grabbed back out at the courtyard. "Colonel Najafi, Phousse, I've got to hand it to you, excellent job with the distraction; you both deserve an Oscar."

With that, Wang and Vansen looked over at Najafi and Damphousse.

"That was an _act_?" sputtered Vansen.

"You don't really think I would betray our best chance of getting out of this death-trap, do you, Captain?" replied Colonel Najafi, grinning a bit. "Captain Hawkes and Captain West advised me of the plan when they first arrived."

"Yeah, Shane, come on, you know me better than that," added Damphousse as she gaze Wang's shoulder a gentle punch. "West clued me while you and Wang were down in the mine."

"Sorry I ever doubted you, pretty lady," smiled Wang as he reached over and hugged Damphousse, looking back over at West a moment later as he let her go. "What happens now?"

Before West could answer, the sound of engines rumbling began to fill the air.

Out in the courtyard, the prisoners who'd been milling about, apparently not yet fully grasping the significance of the submunitions strike, were joined by throngs of still more prisoners emerging from the bunkhouses, prompted by the sound of engines to emerge, their eyes scanning the skies for the source of the rumbling.

Looking out past the fence line towards the horizon to the North, West smiled as he caught sight of the squadron of Shoshone gunships racing in. With the gunships rapidly fanning out across the plain in groups of two, the craft raced in, engines roaring at maximum, tearing up the distance with blinding speed.

Out along the perimeter, the few Silicates in the towers that hadn't been hit by the missile-borne submunitions opened up with their machine guns, arcs of tracers racing out, chasing after the encircling Shoshone gunships.

But before any of the guard towers managed to score any hits, the international medley of special forces teams; Spetnaz, Australian Second Commandos, Cuban Black Wasps, Korean Seven-Oh-Seven, SEALs and others arrayed around the periphery of the camp in Shimmer Gear opened up, their withering small arms fire ripping into the few actionable guard towers and the Silicates manning them.

Adding their weight to the assault, the racing gunships likewise opened up, their heavy chin-mounted cannons splintering the towers and ripping the AI's in them into confetti. As their brethren continued to chew up the guard towers, a pair of gunships angled in and let loose with a couple air-to-ground missiles, the front entry gate and electrical generators connected to the fence line vaporizing in several small explosions as the missiles hit home.

As the bewildered prisoners in the courtyard watched in stunned fascination, the formidable defenses that had kept them captive these last terrible months were rapidly whittled away to nothing.

"Okay, that's it, time to get the hell out of here," snapped Hawkes as he jumped up to his feet, rifle at the ready and raced back out into the courtyard.

With West falling in beside him, Vansen, Wang, Damphousse and Colonel Najafi fell into single file behind the two leading Wildcards, the group making a rapid beeline towards the smoldering wreckage of the shattered main gate.

Pausing only long enough to snatch up a couple weapons themselves from the fried Silicates lying on the ground, Wang, Vansen, Damphousse and Colonel Najafi looked over at the stunned gaggle of prisoners standing in the courtyard.

"Well what the hell are you waiting for, an invitation?" shouted Vansen. "Let get the fuck out of here!"

As Colonel Najafi likewise shouted out at the motionless prisoners, first in Persian, then in French, the throngs of weary bodies began to fall in behind them, the inertia of the moment pulling them towards their interminably longed-for freedom.

As the prisoners surged en masse towards the shattered gate, the special forces teams that had helped snipe down the Silicates in the towers emerged from their positions, charging forward and using explosive charges to blast open several more sections of the fence, motioning the prisoners out though the holes once they'd been made in the perimeter.

As the air became filled with rapid fire orders in a myriad of languages; English, Arabic, German, Hindi, Chinese, Russian; the mass of prisoners burst out onto the open plain, guided forward by the special ops teams as the gunships continued to circle overhead, watchful for any additional Silicates.

After running out across the plain, his body functioning on nothing but adrenaline, West stopped and turned to face the mass of bodies forming up behind him.

"Stop, here, stop!" shouted West, holding his clenched fist high in the air.

"Hold here!" burst Hawkes as he likewise threw up the same hand-arm signal to the international throng. "Right here, take a knee!"

As the order to hold war was repeated in any number of differing languages, the special forces teams formed a loose perimeter around the gaggle, their eyes and weapons watchful as they too entreated the freed mass of humanity to stop.

Glancing back over at the prison camp, the area now ringed by dozens of smoke plumes rising into the air, but nevertheless wary that at any moment there might still be Silicates able to swarm out for a counterattack, Vansen lightly shook her head as she looked back over at West.

"West!" burst Vansen, shouting in order to be heard over the din of prisoners and special-ops teams shouting back and forth. "West, what the hell are we waiting for?"

Looking back over at Vansen, West ginned.

"You're about to see," he said simply as he cast his gaze skyward.

Likewise looking up, Vansen, Wang and Damphousse watched as the circling gunships pulled away…

…just as the sky overhead seemed to exploded in a series of thundering flashes.

As West and Hawkes watched her with nothing short of amusement, Vansen's eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open in utterly bewildered amazement as she watched the sky become instantly filled with aircraft, the ships themselves emerging from the tens of dozens of sparkling bursts of light.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Raptor Zero-Seven-Five**

"Well this is certainly different," growled Lieutenant Kimberly Cetina as she fought against the howling turbulence rocking the Raptor.

As she kept her eyes locked on her instrument panel, Lieutenant Cetina's ears perked up as she heard a momentary groan reverberate through the Raptor's airframe.

"What's our status, Petrovich?" called Cetina as she felt the craft get buffeted by another blast of turbulence.

"We're go for release on the maglocks," replied Petrovich, her voice full of tension.

"Thank the gods," grunted Cetina as she fought to keep the Raptor steady. "Cut them loose."

With a dull thump echoing through the Raptor, Cetina felt the ship suddenly lift, freed of the burden of trying to remain airborne while magnetically attached to the much larger Earth military transport that had been slung underneath during the FTL jump.

Looking out past her cockpit canopy, Cetina watched as the other Raptors around her ship also detached themselves from atop the Earth ships they'd likewise been burdened with.

With all the craft, Earth and Colonial alike now flying free under their own power, the mass formation nosed over, making a rapid descent towards the plain below.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Open Plain  
><strong>**300 meters outside Kazbek Internment Facility**

"When did we get ships like those?" shouted Wang as he watched the dozens of stubby little craft settle down onto the ground beside the more familiar, but nevertheless clearly upgraded ISSCV's.

"Long story," replied West flatly as he watched the entry hatches on all the rescue craft pop open, an IFOR liaison quickly emerging from each craft.

Glancing over at the nearest IFOR Special-Ops team, West motioned over at the expectant group of freed prisoners.

"We need to start breaking them down into loading sticks!" shouted West.

"Are there any more prisoners down in the mines?" called one of the special ops team members, his thick German accent pegging him as a member of Kommando Spezialkräfte.

"Negative, they did not have a chance to get them out yet this morning," replied Colonel Najafi, shaking his head adamantly. "All the prisoners were still in the camp; you guys hit at just the right time."

"Good, because no one will want to be left behind in a few minutes," nodded the German Spec-Operator flatly as he began motioning for the liaisons that had emerged from the craft to make their way over to the waiting mass of freed prisoners.

As the liaisons from the landed transports converged on the freed prisoners, they very quickly began rounding up small groups and began moving them off towards the waiting transports, the liaisons rapidly shepherding them aboard, at least as rapidly as some of the truly emaciated men and women could move.

As she continued to watch the gunships circling overhead, her gaze drifting until it finally settled on the unusual craft sitting beside the ISSCV's on the plain, Captain Shane Vansen was utterly flabbergasted.

"West, what the hell is going on?" she sputtered.

"Yeah," burst Wang as he too watched the flurry of activity around the area. "All the prisoners that have come in over the last several weeks have said our forces were getting beaten back; how did we manage to launch a raid like this?"

"Trust me, they'll be plenty of time to explain later," smirked West as he watched the groups of prisoners get moved out to the waiting transports. "For now, you'll just have to trust me when I say the last few weeks have been pretty interesting."


	12. Game Changer

**Operation Cabanatuan  
><strong>**Strike Element '**_**Zaytsev**_**'  
><strong>**Spetsnaz GRU 10th (Mountain) Detached Special Operations Brigade  
><strong>**Kazbek Internment Facility**

With his rifle poised at his shoulder, muzzle at the ready, _Práporshchik_ Bekhterev stepped forward towards the cluster of Silicates lying on the ground in front of what intelligence had determined was the camp's administrative building.

Snapping his hand up, Bekhterev brought his team to a stop.

"Bodrova, Kovalenko, you two start pulling their hard drives," said Bekhterev evenly, barely casting a glance over his shoulder as he pointed over at the motionless Silicates.

"Understood," snapped Bodrova as she and Kovalenko each stepped over to a different Silicate body.

As Bekhterev and _Starshiná_ Dezhnyov stood there, eyes scanning the area, weapons ready to engage anything that looked like an AI or a Chig, Bodrova and Kovalenko pulled out their knives and jammed them with very little fanfare into the Silicate bodies they'd knelt down beside. Using the serrated-edges of the blades, the two Spetnaz operators ripped away sections of clothing and synthetic skin, tossing the chunks aside as they dug deeper into the AI torsos.

Flipping the knives around, Bodrova and Kovalenko then used the pommels to smash through a layer of circuit boards and protective housing, pulling the smashed sections aside and quickly locating the inner optical hard-drives. Grunting with effort, both of them then yanked the hard-drives free, sections of smashed circuit boards and wiring dangling from the removed drives like silicon and insulation-sheathed copper entrails.

Tossing the two AI hard drives into a bag, both Bodrova and Kovalenko moved over to repeat the process on two more of the inanimate Silicates.

As Bodrova and Kovalenko continued their work, Bekhterev glanced over to the gaggle of freed prisoners as they continued to load up onto the landed transports out on the plain.

With the operational portion of the mission now underway, Bekhterev listened intently to the litany of radio traffic echoing in over the tactical radio headset built into his helmet, the various languages being conveniently translated by the American-provided compact translator devices.

"How much longer until we have all the hard-drives?" asked Bekhterev evenly as his eyes continued to scan the area for any signs of the enemy.

"Five more minutes, sir," replied _Serzhánt_ Bodrova, grunting slightly as she yanked yet another optical hard-drive free and quickly moved on to the next Silicate body.

"Very well," said Bekhterev simply as he reached and pressed down on his tac-radio's transmit button. "_Gray Lady_, this is _Zaytsev_; asset retrieval underway, zero resistance on site; proceed with insertion of _Cleaning Crew_."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

As he stood with his eyes locked on DRADIS, Colonel Thadius Runel watched with subdued satisfaction as the mixed group of Vipers and Earth Hammerhead fighters continued to tear into the network of orbital defense satellites surrounding the planet Kazbek. Although the earlier strike by West and Hawkes had ripped a hole in the defense network wide enough for _Galactica_ to make her FTL insertion into orbit above the encampment unaccosted, the first wave of fighters launched from her decks had nevertheless been tasked to widen that hole so the CAP could concentrate on any possible enemy aerospace-craft sorties.

As Runel watched the mixed force continue to knock the satellites from orbit, he absently reached up and gently adjusted his translator earpiece as Major Burke made her way back over to the center plot table from speaking with Lieutenant Cortez.

"Retrieval force is loading up now, Colonel," said Captain Cohen, CAG for all the embarked Earth aircraft and the senior Earth military liaison for the mission, a translator earpiece in one ear and a wireless handset pressed against the other.

"How close was the intel on the number of prisoners?" asked Runel as he looked over at the Earth liaison.

"We don't have an exact headcount yet, Colonel, but the numbers seem to have been pretty much what we expected," replied Cohen as he looked up at DRADIS. "Retrieval teams are reporting that all prisoners and ground assets should be able to come up in just the one load."

"Excellent," sighed Runel as he cast his eyes back up to DRADIS.

"With all the prisoners able to come up in one load, we should be able to retrieve all our aloft birds and be out of here in less than two hours," muttered Major Burke as she likewise looked up intently at the DRADIS display.

"After loitering at the system's outskirts for the last week, I'm just glad this show is finally underway," smirked Runel. "Few things as grating to the nerves as waiting."

"Sir, we're getting a message from _Zaytsev_ team," said Captain Cohen evenly. "They report the area is ready for insertion of _Cleaning Crew_."

"Understood," said Runel, his gaze never leaving the screens overhead. "Petty Officer Dupree, advise Raptor Zero-Three-Seven that they're clear for insertion."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Raptor Zero-Three-Seven**

As she stood looking out the front canopy at the columns of smoke rising around the perimeter of the encampment, Captain Jordan Gaines watched as the lines of freed prisoners steadily made their way towards the Raptors and Earth transports on the plain nearby, the Earth gunships continuing to circle the area above them like a swarm of angry insects.

"Captain, I don't mind you standing there like that, after all, it'll be your body going through the canopy if we crash, not mine," began the Raptor's pilot, Ensign Munez evenly. "But could you at least do me the favor of not drumming away on my seat like that; we've got a lot of aircraft coming in and out down there, and you're distracting me."

Looking first over at Munez, then over at her hand, Gaines suddenly realized she'd been drumming her fingers on the side of the pilot's seat.

When the hell had she started doing that?

"Sorry," muttered Gaines simply.

Turning back around to her team, Gaines caught sight of Corporal Bowman, a wry smirk on his lips as he gently shook his head.

"You look like you've got something to say, Bowman," muttered Gaines, using the cargo netting to keep her balance as the Raptor banked into another turn.

"Just wondering what the Commander would think of you borrowing one of his signature moves, Captain," replied Bowman, his comment eliciting a few chuckles from the other Marines huddled in the rear of the Raptor. "I'm pretty sure he's had the finger-drum of his trademarked by now so you could be looking at a lawsuit if he finds out."

"Is that right?" muttered Gaines lightly as she looked back over at Bowman's smirk. "Well, do you want to see something I learned from our Earth brethren?"

With that, Gaines held her hand out and slowly extended her middle finger.

"I learned that one, too, Captain," chuckled Bowman. "But I think it loses a little something in the translation."

"Why, what does it mean, Captain?" asked Private Benavidez as he looked quizzically over at Gaines.

"It means 'have a nice day'," grinned Bowman, his tone indicating, at least to Gaines, that he knew damned well it meant anything but.

While it was clear Benavidez wasn't gullible enough to take Bowman's phony explanation seriously, as he paused and cast his gaze back down towards his own boots, it was also clear from his disappointed expression that the young man knew he was more-or-less being excluded from being 'in-the-know' about something by the senior Marines around him. In truth it was a schism as old as the Corps itself, perhaps even as old as humanity itself; the senior, more experienced members of a group taking advantage of the naivety of the younger and less experienced, even if only for the purposes of making a joke.

"Captain Gaines!" called the Raptor's ECO, Ensign Athari from the forward co-pilot seat.

"What's up?" asked Gaines simply as she looked back over her shoulder.

"We just got the go-signal from _Galactica_," replied Ensign Athari as she sat looking back over at Gaines and her team. "We'll be on the deck in two mikes."

"Copy that," sighed Gaines, holding the netting a bit tighter as the Raptor banked into another hard turn. "Okay, people, remember, this is real simple, we go in, drop the package and get out. The Earth spec-ops teams and gunships should have the area clear, but don't get complacent. Eyes and ears open, muzzles at the ready, copy?"

At that, the five Marines in her team let out a deep, guttural bark; a whimsical motivational holdover displayed by the veterans from the Sagittaron Depot, the original 'Junkyard Dogs' which had long since been picked up by most of the other Marines in the fleet as well.

"On your feet!" snapped Gaines, grinning slightly as she nodding her head in approval.

With that, Gaines' team reached up and grabbed hold of the cargo netting, using it to haul themselves to their feet as the Raptor continued to rock and pitch while making its descent towards the prison camp.

"Thirty-seconds!" called Ensign Munez as Gaines heard the Raptors engines continue to scream.

At that, all of the Marines around the rear compartment, Gaines included, slapped a full magazine into their weapons and cycled the first rounds into the chambers. That done, Gaines reached down and pressed the transmit button for her squad-wireless.

"Radio check?" she snapped, looking over at the members of her team as she did so.

Instantly, Bowman and the other Marines gave her a quick thumbs-up, indicating that they had heard her over their sets.

"Bowman, you and Benavidez grab the pack," said Gaines evenly as she pointed over at the large combat pack lying on the deck.

Without a word, both Bowman and Benavidez each grabbed hold of a pack strap.

With her team poised to flood out the entry hatch, Gaines kept a firm grip with one hand on the cargo netting while reaching out towards the button that would open the hatch, gently bending her knees a bit, getting them ready to absorb the impact of the Raptor touching down.

A moment later, the Raptor did just that, making hard contact with the ground.

"Nice landing," grunted Gaines as she held firmly onto the netting, barely able to stay on her feet, but nevertheless managing to bring her other hand down onto the button that rapidly popped the egress hatch open.

As the hatch rose up, Gaines and her Marines all but exploded out onto the winglet, weapons snapping to the ready as they quickly fanned out in a semi-circle, eyes and muzzles scanning for any sign of the enemy.

With a hard gust of wind, the Raptor's engines whined back to full power, plumes of dust being kicked into the air as it rapidly ascended away.

As the sound the Raptor faded, the dust cloud kicked up by its departure slowly dispersed, allowing Gaines and her team to look around at the simple wooden huts that intel had indicated were the prisoner quarters.

"Where's our contact team?" asked Bowman, his eyes and the muzzle of his rifle scanning around the area as he stood beside the combat pack he and Benavidez had been tasked to haul.

"Over there," replied Gaines a moment later as she caught sight of a man waving to them from nearby.

"Jahnigen, you're with me on point; Bowman, you and Benavidez at the center; Candor, Peters, watch out six."

As the Marines let out another dog-like grunt, the team fell into a simple double-column and began making their way over towards the spec-ops team they'd been ordered to meet-up with on the ground.

As Gaines and her team made their way across the dirt courtyard, eyes watchful for any sign of enemy forces, Silicate or Alien, the simple formation of Marines very quickly making their way towards the waiting Spec-Ops team.

As Gaines and her Marines stepped up to the four individuals waiting near a cluster of shredded Silicate bodies, the man who'd waved them over looked over at Gaines, his expression one of clear appraisal as he looked the Marines over.

Reaching down into a pouch on her gear, Gaines retrieved the translator device she'd been given, held it up, then pointed over at the man as she slipped the earpiece into place.

"Yes, my translator is on, Captain Gaines," he said simply. "I am Warrant Officer Bekhterev, Russian _Spetznaz_"

"Captain Jordan Gaines, Colonial Marines," she muttered, her eyes wandering over to the torn Silicate bodies lying on the ground. "Have you encountered any resistance?"

"Minimal, but it's been neutralized," replied the man simply as he glanced down at the torn bodies on the ground. "I was preparing to take my team inside to look for documents or other intelligence; do you need us to stay here while you prepare the device?"

Looking back over at the man, it was clear from his tone, even through the translator, that he was somewhat questioning of the competency of Gaines and her team.

"No, I think we'll be fine, Warrant Officer Bekhterev," she replied, smirking a bit.

Snorting a bit, Bekhterev nodded slightly and then turned back to the other three members in his team, motioning them inside the building entryway.

Turning back to her Marines, Gaines pointed over at the pack Bowman and Benavidez had brought along.

"Bowman, you help me with the device; Jahnigen, Peters, Candor, Benavidez, eyes and weapons outboard."

As the other Marines in her team turned and took a knee, eyes intently watching the area, Gaines stepped over and helped Bowman unfasten the straps holding the pack cover in place. Flopping back the pack cover, Gaines couldn't help but take a deep, pensive breath as she looked at the gleaming metal device inside; hell, even in war it wasn't every day one found themselves face-to-face with a thermonuclear warhead.

As Bowman gently pulled the weapon free from the pack, Gaines slowly loosened the straps to the pack she was carrying and laid it down beside the warhead. Glancing out towards the cluster of Raptors and Earth transports, Gaines noted with no small sense of satisfaction that most of the freed prisoners had already been loaded aboard.

"Good thing they're not taking their time over there," she muttered as she retrieved the portable detonator from the pack she'd been carrying. "They really don't want to be here when this goes off."

"Not exactly keen on the idea of being here myself when it does, Captain," sighed Bowman as he handed her a connection cable. "The only thing that's going to be left in this valley when this cooks off is a giant sheet of radioactive glass."

"Go ahead and make contact with _Galactica_," sighed Gaines as she watched the connection indicator light flash to life. "Advise them we are set in and ready to arm the warhead."

"Aye, Captain," muttered Bowman.

As he reached up and prepared to press down on his wireless transmit button, Gaines suddenly reached over and grabbed hold of his wrist.

"Okay, call me paranoid if you must, but just do me the favor of stepping away a bit before you send that transmission," she muttered as she slowly let go of his wrist.

"This isn't G-four, Captain," smirked Bowman. "A wireless signal shouldn't set it off."

"True, but I can't help but think of something else I picked up from our Earth brethren," grinned Gaines as she looked over at Bowman. "An ancient philosopher of theirs, a guy named Murphy, he once said that a good soldier never forgets that their weapons are made by the lowest bidder."

"Point taken," replied Bowman simply as he looked back over at the warhead.

To be sure, it _was_ utterly ridiculous for Gaines to be concerned that a simple wireless transmission might somehow cause the warhead to detonate. But then again, had anyone come to her a few weeks ago and told her she'd be fighting shoulder-to-shoulder alongside members of the lost Thirteenth Tribe against an alien species that too would have seemed equally ridiculous.

As Bowman stepped away to send out the wireless message, Gaines slowly ran her gloved hand along the polished metal casing of the warhead, more-or-less petting it as though it were a feral animal that needed to be soothed.

"Be good," she muttered.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Colonel Runel, message from _Cleaning Crew_, package on site; they are ready to arm the warhead," called Petty Officer Dupree.

"Understood," replied Colonel Runel simply as he looked across at Captain Cohen. "How goes the load-out on the surface, Captain Cohen?"

"The contact teams report the load out is proceeding on schedule, Colonel," replied Cohen evenly, pausing as another transmission came in over his handset. "To say the least, our people down there are pretty anxious to get the hell off that rock."

"I imagine so," smiled Runel as he looked back up at DRADIS.

With most of the defense satellite network on this side of Kazbek now little more than shattered debris falling from orbit, most of the hunter-killer teams of Vipers and Hammerhead fighters were lining back up for landing. With the Raptor pickets watching for any signs of approaching enemy ships, stealth or otherwise, and the _Ikenga_ and _Adroa_ both in cover positions in a higher orbit, Colonel Thadius Runel couldn't help it when a little voice in the back of his mind whispered that the mission was going better than their most optimistic projections.

"Colonel, report from Raptor Six-Two-Five," called Petty Officer Dupree, the urgency in the man's voice instantly making Runel curse the little voice he'd heard.

"What do they have?" he asked simply as he looked over at Dupree.

"Long range DRADIS track, six vessels on an intercept course, sir."

"Do we know what type of vessels they are?" called Major Burke as she steadily made her way back over to the center table.

"Based on signatures, probable standard type alien bombers or transport craft," replied Lieutenant Cortez as the contacts detected by the Raptor came into direct DRADIS range of _Galactica_.

"That's impossible," muttered Captain Cohen as he scowled at the craft on the screens overhead. "With all the interference we're kicking out, the Silicates couldn't have gotten a message out, and even if they did, we're at least a day away from the nearest base."

"Could be a scheduled flight, a supply run maybe," offered Colonel Runel as he likewise watched the craft close in.

"Well, whoever they are, we still have to contend with them," countered Major Burke evenly as she too watched the craft close in. "What are your orders, Colonel?"

"Launch Alert Five and vector a flight of Vipers and a flight of Hammerheads from the CAP to intercept," ordered Runel, leaning in a bit over the plot table as the six contacts continued to close in on the screens overhead. "I also want _Ikenga_ to shift her orbit into a blocking position in case any enemy birds get past our intercept force. But, make sure to remind our people to keep their eyes wide; just because we can't see them yet doesn't mean those enemy birds don't have a stealth escort."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Combat Air Patrol  
><strong>**Hammerhead Six-Eight-Six**

As she gently nursed her Hammerhead into position off her flight leader's left wing, Lieutenant Katrina 'Sweat Pea' Laturner nudged the throttles forward as her flight poured on the speed in order to intercept the closing Chig craft as far out as possible to ensure they had room to maneuver.

"_This is Gramps_," came the voice of the flight leader, recently-promoted Captain Nick 'Gramps' Keegan. "_Keep your eyes sharp for any escorts, stealth or otherwise, and watch your targets, we have a flight of Colonials coming in for the assist_."

"_How do you want to play our intercept, Gramps_?" asked Lieutenant James 'Rocky' Stone evenly.

"_Direct charge, fangs out_," replied Gramps simply. "_We'll go nose-to-nose then split up to take 'em down; Sweet Pea, you're with me, we'll peel right after the merge. Stone, you and Shock cut left and try to corral them towards the Colonials_."

"_Copy that, Gramps_," answered Lieutenant Michelle 'Shock' Low. "_You ready, Rocky_?"

"_Anytime, anyplace, baby_," replied Stone, his deep voice resonating a bit, even over the radio.

As the other three pilots chuckled, Laturner simply watched her LIDAR as their flight continued on towards the intercept. As an InVitro, Laturner still had trouble getting used to the subtle things like humor that her comrades took for granted. It wasn't that her comrades treated her any differently, in fact, Gramps seemed to have gone out of his way on more than one occasion to try and make Laturner feel included in the tight-knit group. More often than not, it simply came down to the fact that Laturner felt too self-conscious to participate in such banter, an admittedly curious trait for a 'hardened' Marine Corps aviator, but one she none-the-less displayed.

"_Hey, Sweet Pea, you okay over there_?" asked Keegan simply.

"Affirmative, Gramps," replied Laturner, looking out at Keegan's plane. "Just watching for any signs of an escort."

"_Well, if there is one, we'll know in about forty-five seconds_," said Keegan. "_Everyone go ahead and pick a bird, go for a frontal gun kill if you can with this pass; even if we don't get a hard kill, it'll likely shake 'em up a bit in the merge_."

"Understood," replied Laturner evenly as she nudged the selector switch with her thumb that brought her ship's chin-mounted cannon to life.

As she heard Low and Stone likewise acknowledge the order, Latuner settled her finger in over the trigger, her eyes locked on the endless sea of stars stretched out beyond her canopy, her eyes searching for the incoming enemy craft.

"Tally, six enemy craft directly ahead," called Laturner as she caught the faintest glimmer of the enemy outlines against the stars.

"_Copy, I see them_," replied Keegan, his tone a bit more urgent than it had been a moment ago. "Galactica_, Gramps, we have eyes on the enemy, six confirmed, negative on escort, rolling in hot_."

"Galactica _copies_," replied the voice Lartuner recognized as that of Captain Cohen. "_Colonial Vipers are less than three minutes out for the assist; advise before you pursue enemy any closer than five-hundred MSK's, Colonial _Ikenga_ is standing by for full counter-fire in case they breach that distance_."

"_Understood_," said Keegan simply. "_All right, you heard CAG, don't chase in beyond the five-hundred barrier; nothing fancy, let's just knock these birds down_."

As the four Hammerhead fighters closed in, everyone pushed their throttles open to max, all four of the Marine aviators intent on not giving their quarry any more than a split second to try and counter their attack.

"_This is Gramps, weapons free, engaging_," called Keegan a split second before his forward chin turret erupted in a hail of fire that peppered the forward section of the nearest enemy craft.

As Latuner, Stone and Low likewise opened up, the craft targeted by Keegan began to disintegrate under his wither barrage, sections of the craft's hull plating shearing away as it began to spin out of control.

"_Hoo-rah, that's one_," called Keegan triumphantly as the rear section of the craft detonated, the blast working its way forward until the entire ship was engulfed.

A split second later, the four Hammerheads streaked down the center of the enemy formation, the Chig craft holding course as the Marine fighters began to come about, angling back around to engage the enemy craft from the rear.

As Low and Stone broke left, Laturner held firm to Keegan's wing as the man brought his plane back around in a tight turn to the right.

"_Looks like they're not as shaken as we'd hoped_," said Stone as he and Low angled back around onto the tails of the Chig ships. "_They're holding formation and course for Kazbek_."

"_I think they're transports_," added Low a moment later. "_If they were bombers they would have at least tried to shoot back_."

"_Maybe, but as long as they're holding their formation, it'll make this easier_," said Keegan as he and Laturner settled back in behind the tails of the enemy ships. "_Instead of hitting them piecemeal, we can corral them as a group right towards the Colonials_."

"_Hammerhead flight, this is Viper Six-Zero-Four, callsign Longrifle_."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Combat Air Patrol  
><strong>**Viper Six-Zero-Four**

Nestled within the cockpit of his Mark Two Viper, truly his second home, Major Thomas Culver, callsign 'Longrifle', watched on DRADIS as the Hammerheads continued to close back onto the tails of the approaching enemy craft.

Although he had already gone through three more-or-less joint operations with Earth military forces, this was the first time that they were working with a truly effective means of communication; no longer would they be stumbling along on mere gut instinct or hand-and-arm signals, a decidedly inefficient method in the midst of a dogfight, or routing their communications through a single source.

No, thankfully whatever brilliant though likely underappreciated engineer had helped design the new translator devices had also had enough common-sense and foresight to include the ability to link those devices directly into the wireless communications on each of the individual Earth aircraft.

"_This is Hammerhead Six-Eight-Six, flight lead, callsign Gramps, send your traffic_," replied his Earth counterpart.

"Be advised, we'll be coming in from your six o'clock low, we're going to lock up for a missile strike on this pass, see if we can't cull their numbers a bit so throttle back in case one of our birds loses lock and goes astray."

"_Copy that, Longrifle_."

As the Hammerheads slowed their pursuit, Culver looked over at the three Vipers arrayed off his left wing.

"Flight, did you copy my last?" he asked simply.

"_Affirm, Longrifle_," replied Lieutenant Amy 'Grips' Jonas.

"_Solid copy, Boss_," replied Ensign Percy 'Shadow' Dorian.

"Bo-Jay, we're about sixty seconds out; did you copy my last?" called Culver.

"_Yeah, Longrifle, I copy_," replied Lieutenant Boland "Bo-Jay" Jenner a moment later. "_I'm just having some trouble locking on, some kind of interference DRADIS, must be a glitch in the system_."

Taking a momentary breath, Culver focused back in on his own DRADIS display.

If Bo-Jay's systems were experiencing a malfunction, no matter how minor, then any missile he fired would almost certainly go astray; combat was a bad time to have an errant missile careening about inside their engagement zone.

"Alright, Bo-Jay, hold off on missiles and make a gun pass; Shadow, Grips, you two lock-on, take the two on the left."

As his pilots acknowledged his order, Culver targeted in on the craft on the far right. As the low tone indicating a good target lock echoed out through his cockpit, Culver slipped his thumb in over the trigger on his stick.

"_Holy frak! Longrifle, Bo-Jay; I've got visual on three bandits coming in at our seven o'clock low, negative DRADIS track_!"

Before he could reply, Major Culver watched in horror as the space all around his flight of Vipers became filled with a torrent of enemy weapons fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Before he could even react to the frantic call that had echoed out over the wireless, Colonel Thadius Runel watched as two of the Viper signatures disappeared from DRADIS.

"Radiological detection!" called Lieutenant Cortez urgently, his voice echoing off the CIC bulkheads. "Signature match confirmed; three enemy stealth fighters; bearing two-two-niner carom two-seven-one."

"I want three more flights vectored in for intercept; all of our fighters are to concentrate on taking out those stealth craft; advise _Ikenga_ to prepare full counter-battery on the approaching enemy transports."

"Colonel, there's no way to tell what those transports have aboard, but if they aren't turning away…" began Major Burke, he voice trailing off as Runel looked over to Captain Cohen.

"Send the word out to your gunship squadron; advise them that they may have hostiles attempt to make planetfall in their area," began Runel evenly as Cohen nodded. "Nothing fancy, just be ready to tear up anything that attempts to land."

"Understood," snapped Cohen as he pressed his wireless handset to his ear and relayed the message.

Returning his attention to the DRADIS, Runel watched as the additional fighters he ordered in for intercept turned towards the fighter-melee that had erupted out in space, his mind very much cognizant of the _Proteus_' fate as he watched the faint signatures of the stealth aircraft continue to close.

"Major Burke, advise defensive batteries to prepare full counter-fire; if those bastards out there break five hundred K-range, I want a hail of lead in the air so thick that someone could walk across it."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Hammerhead Six-Eight-Six**

Gritting her teeth against the ache her body felt during the high-G maneuver, Laturner fought back against the impulse to loosen up her turn as she held tight to Keegan's wing.

With her Hammerhead's throttles full open, she and Gramps were rapidly angling in on the spectacle of crisscrossing weapons fire dotting the area of space in front of them.

"_Okay, Sweet Pea, just hold tight on my wing, I'm going to try and jump one of these bastards and see if I can cull him away to take pressure of those Colonials_," called Gramps, the effort he was likewise under to hold the tight high-speed turn evident in his voice.

"Copy that," she said simply, her chest feeling as though there were a stack of bricks upon it as she fought to take in a breath.

As the two planes leveled out from the turn, settling into little more than a straight charge towards the melee, Laturner checked her LIDAR.

She and Keegan were attempting to come up onto the engagement from a position low and out of the system's admittedly dim sun while Stone and Low were angling in from a position nearly ninety degrees perpendicular to their approach; a pincer movement that might help to shake the enemy from their relentless pursuit of the two surviving Colonial fighters tangled within the torrent of weapons fire.

"_Gramps to Colonials, come right to help us engage_," called Keegan as he and Laturner continued to race in.

Although neither of the Colonial craft responded verbally, from the tight turn the two ships banked into it was clear that they had indeed heard Keegan, the valiantly maneuvering craft little more than pulling the three enemy stealth ships along on their tails right into the line of fire of the two racing Hammerheads.

"_Sweet Pea, let's see if we can get their attention_," snapped Keegan simply as his forward mounded cannon opened up, a stream of fire arcing out into space, slamming against the hull of one enemy fighter. Likewise pulling back on her trigger, Laturner's Hammerhead erupted in another stream of weapons fire that raced out and connected with the same enemy ship that Keegan had targeted.

While it was by now common, indeed, exhaustively briefed knowledge that the armor plating on the enemy stealth craft was tougher to defeat with cannons than the older Chig fighters, the concentrated fire from the two Hammerheads was nevertheless enough to shake the targeted stealth craft off its pursuit, the ship veering low and away from the rapidly approaching Marine fighters.

As she and Keegan pulled into another turn to maintain their pursuit, Laturner caught the heartening sight of two more streams of distinctly human weapons fire slamming into a second stealth ship, likewise throwing it off the tails of the Colonial ships.

As Low and Stone peeled off to chase down that craft, Laturner glanced down at her LIDAR. In spite of an upgrade to the software prior to their departure on this mission, it was clear the system was still having trouble getting a firm lock on the stealth targets, the signatures of the three enemy fighters winking in and out on the display.

"Gramps, fire control is still having trouble locking on," called Laturner as she watched Keegan's cannon erupt in another long burst. "A hard kill is going to be squiffy if we depend on cannons."

"_All we can do is try, Sweet Pea_," replied Keegan, his tone clearly strained as he pulled into another tight, high-G turn in pursuit of the doggedly maneuvering enemy ship. "_At least now the odds are back in our favor; we're all two-on-one_."

As she fought to maintain her position off Keegan's wing, the forward cannon of his Hammerhead continuing to fire off burst after burst, Laturner braved another momentary glance down at LIDAR and saw that Keegan was more-or-less correct; with her and Keegan chasing one enemy ship, Low and Stone having lured a second away, the two Colonial ships had been given the breathing room they needed to use their superior maneuverability, even by comparison to the particularly nasty stealth ships, and had turned the tables, the two tri-wing craft now in a position to chase down the final enemy stealth fighter.

Still, try as they may, a gun kill alone was proving difficult; the armor on the stealth ships was just too thick for the cannons, Earth or Colonial, to make much of a dent.

"_I have an idea_," snapped Keegan. "_Gramps to _Galactica_; are your fire control systems able to pick up on laser designators_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

As his mind worked to try and ferret out the reason behind Keegan's inquiry, Captain Cohen glanced over at Colonel Runel.

"It's possible," began Runel a moment after Cohen relayed the question. "Our fighters use low-power lasers for force-on-force training, our systems are able to detect those when calculating kills, so if we know the wavelength we should be able to detect it; what does your pilot have in mind?"

"That is affirm, Gramps, what have you got in mind?" snapped Cohen as he pressed the radio handset to his ear.

"_I know it's a bit unorthodox, but what if I use our ground attack designator to paint the target; it won't be one-hundred percent, but it might allow the _Galactica_ to get a firm enough lock to light this bitch up with their AA_."

Glancing over at Colonel Runel it was clear from the man's somewhat shocked expression that he understood the unspoken risks of what Keegan was suggesting; in the midst of a wildly maneuvering dogfight, Keegan was offering to use his craft to help direct a danger-close barrage of flak at point blank range.

"Are you certain your fire control can't get a lock, Gramps?" snapped Cohen as he glanced back up at the fighter melee on the screens overhead. "If _Galactica_ opens up at that proximity, your ships might get hit."

"_LIDAR is intermittent, heat signature is negligible; I let my birds off the rails, they'll likely lose track and go astray_."

Taking a deep breath, Cohen looked Runel directly in the eye.

"Colonel?"

Pausing only long enough to look back up at DRADIS, Runel made his decision.

"Lieutenant Cortez, coordinate with fire control to obtain track of the target," snapped Runel evenly. "Anything we pick up I want cross-refed with our readings from the rad-detection systems."

"Aye, sir."

"Paint the target, Gramps," said Cohen evenly.

Almost instantly, the intermittent contact DRADIS had with the enemy stealth ship, truly little more than a momentary ghost that would appear and then just as quickly disappear seemed to light up like a flare in the dark as the laser designator on the Earth fighter reflected off the enemy vessel's hull.

"Fire control reports target acquisition, Colonel," called Lieutenant Cortez.

"Sir, message from _Ikenga_, they've got firm acquisition on the five remaining enemy transports," called Petty Officer Dupree.

"Advise _Ikenga_ they are authorized to engage hostiles," snapped Runel as he watched DRADIS continue to track the painted enemy stealth fighter. "Now where's my AA fire on that enemy fighter, Lieutenant?"

"We're still having trouble locking in a firing solution, sir," replied Cortez. "That enemy bird is still maneuvering wildly."

"Advise ordnance to set proximity fuses on all rounds," replied Runel flatly as he leaned in a bit over the plot table. "I want weapons tight, single turret to track and fire when ready."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Hammerhead Six-Eight-Six**

As her fire control panel all but growled at her as it picked up the light-scatter from Keegan's laser-designator refracting off the stealth fighter's hull, Lieutenant Katrina 'Sweet Pea' Laturner sucked in a startled gasp as space in front of her erupted in a series of blinding flashes; the effect of the heavy AA rounds being more-or-less guided by Keegan's Hammerhead detonating in close proximity to the stealth fighter.

_Very_ close proximity.

Using every last bit of effort to keep her mental flinch from translating into an abrupt movement in her Hammerhead's controls, Laturner continued to hold tight on Keegan's wing as the sound of shrapnel peppering the outside of her plane echoed through the cockpit, sounding nothing so much like someone tossing handfuls of gravel against the canopy.

Nevertheless, after a few harrowing moments, Latuner watched in supreme satisfaction as some of the rounds from _Galactica_'s AA battery struck home, slamming into the enemy ship with such force that it was explosively sheared apart even as it tried in vain to turn away from the unexpected barrage.

As the entire enemy ship was engulfed in a decidedly satisfying fireball, Keegan threw his Hammerhead into a high banking turn to the right to avoid the hail of shattered debris.

"_Hoo-rah, that got him_," snapped Keegan a moment later.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Viper Six-Zero-Four**

As he continued to bank and turn to keep the wildly maneuvering stealth fighter in his sights, Major Thomas 'Longrifle' Culver slapped his hand down on the Master Alarm silence, more-or-less forced by circumstance to ignore the damage his ship had taken in the initial barrage as he focused in on the chatter coming in over the wireless.

While it was satisfying to hear that the Hammerhead fighters had managed to down at least one of the enemy birds, the simple fact was that Culver and his remaining wingman, Lieutenant Amy 'Grips' Jonas were not equipped with the laser designators, training or otherwise, needed to replicate the feat.

While he continued to listen over the wireless as the four Earth fighters rallied together to take down the second enemy stealth ship, Culver's mind raced to try and come up with a solution.

With his ammo down to thirty percent, and the rounds themselves proving to be little more than useless against the tough enemy armor, continuing to rattle away with cannons was little more than an exercise in frustrating futility.

With DRADIS track tentative at best, much like their Earth counterparts, were Culver to try and engage with missiles, he could very quickly find his own ordnance veering about when they picked up the much stronger signature of the Vipers themselves.

It was at that moment that the most insane solution popped into his head.

In comparison to the stealth ships, Colonial Vipers were faster and more maneuverable; all he would need to do is find a way to cut in front of the enemy ship…

"Grips, you copy?"

"_I'm with you, Longrifle_."

"Here's what I want you to do," he began, licking his suddenly-dry lips. "Fire a long burst across the nose of the enemy ship, drive him left, then angle another burst to goad him into pulling a hard right."

"_Understood; what do you have in mind_?"

"Keep leading him with your cannons into the right turn, then lock up a Javenlin on my Viper."

"_Say again, Longrifle, you want me to _target_ your Viper_?" asked Jonas, the naked disbelief evident in her voice.

"Affirm, if you can lead him with your guns, I intend to cut across his flight path with your missile in trail."

"_I have a bad feeling about this_."

"Noted," snapped Culver simply. "Just do it."

"_Aye, sir_."

As he executed his turn into what he hoped would soon be the enemy fighter's flight path and slammed his throttles wide open, Culver watched out of the corner of his eyes as Jonas' Viper opened up with a long, sustained burst from her cannons that cut across the enemy ship's nose, causing it to pull left. A moment later, Culver's threat alarm began screaming as she locked onto his plane with a missile.

It was a gamble, no way around it, if the enemy turned a different way, Culver would have a friendly missile racing up his tail in a matter of moments with barely enough time to whisper out a final prayer to the gods before it hit.

But as an old flight instructor of his used to say, sometimes you had to roll the hard six.

With another sustained burst from Jonas' cannons again ripping across the nose of the enemy ship, the craft suddenly veered hard to the right; right towards Culver's flight path.

Resisting the impulse to look down at DRADIS as the system let out another blaring alarm that signaled the launch of a missile at his plane, Culver kept his stick rock-steady, the throttles to the firewall, his Viper rocketing forward as the enemy ship continued to steer out in front of him.

Within moments, his Viper covered the distance between the two converging craft, racing past the prow of the turning enemy ship so closely that Culver felt the slight thump of his winglet scraping against the forward part of the opposing fighter's hull.

But with the all-too acute knowledge that there was still a missing tracking in on his Viper, Culver yanked his stick over hard, pulling the nose of his ship into a parallel course with the enemy fighter.

Daring the briefest glance out to his right, Culver watched in decided satisfaction as the missile that had been targeted at his Viper slammed full on into the enemy bird.

With the enemy ship's 'ghost signature' more or less merged with his own on DRADIS, the missile had simply chosen the closer of the two signatures during its terminal phase.

With the high explosive warhead ripping into its hull armor, an entire wing spire of the enemy stealth ship was sheared away, sending the craft into a dizzying spiral as it continued to spew flames and flotsam into the void before finally detonating in a blinding fireball as Culver's Viper sailed on.

As his adrenaline-charged mind struggled to wrestle back control over his heart-rate and breathing, Culver glanced over at Jonas' Viper sidling into place off his wing, his Master Alarm once again echoing out through his cockpit.

"_You okay over there, Boss_?" she asked simply. "_Looks like you're leaking fuel_…"

That was the last thing Major Thomas Culver heard before his senses were overwhelmed by the experience of his Viper blowing apart around him.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"_…I say again, Longrifle is down; no sign of ejection_."

As the call from Lieutenant Jonas echoed out through CIC, Colonel Thadius Runel let out a long, somber sigh.

"Status of the third enemy fighter?" he called evenly, his eyes not leaving the spot on DRADIS where only a moment before he'd watched Culver's Viper disappear from the screen.

As if to answer, Colonel Runel watched as the last enemy stealth ship, its signature blinking in and out on DRADIS at last blinked out for good as the four Earth Hammerheads stalking it succeeded in directing _Galactica_'s defensive batteries onto target with their laser designators.

With the area now apparently cleared of the potent enemy stealth ships, Colonel Runel shifted his mind back over to the five enemy transports still angling in towards the planet Kazbek.

His mood fouled by the loss of Culver, Runel snatched up the handset on his side of the plot table.

"Get me _Ikenga_," he snapped as he raised the handset to his ear.

"Ikenga-_Actual_," came the voice of Major Kiana Jasper a moment later.

"What's the hold up over there, why haven't you knocked those enemy transports out of the sky?" burst Runel, a bit of anger creeping into his tone.

"_A flight of Nuggets up on CAP cut in across out firing solution trying to link up with the fighter engagement_," replied Jasper flatly. "_We're recalculating our firing solution now; we should have rounds on target momentarily_."

"Take those enemy ships out of my sky, Major," said Runel, slamming the handset back into place abruptly as he looked back up at DRADIS. "Petty Officer Dupree, do we know why Culver's Viper went down yet?"

"Lieutenant Jonas states, and our picket Raptors confirm, there are no other enemy contacts in the area, Colonel," replied Dupree evenly.

"His Viper must have been wounded worse than he thought in the first barrage," sighed Runel as he ran his hand back through the thin layer of sweat beading up in his hair.

"Just bad luck, Colonel," offered Captain Cohen, shaking his head slightly.

For the most part ignoring Cohen's statement, as much because he could tell by the solemn look in the man's eyes that he wasn't simply being cavalier about the loss and was therefore undeserving of any overly harsh rebuke Runel might let slip in that moment, Runel forced his attention back towards the five enemy transports that were now getting far too close to Kazbek for his comfort.

"Come on, Jasper, get your people's asses in gear," he seethed.

A moment later, Colonel Runel watched at DRADIS registered the signature of the _Ikenga_'s batteries opening up on the enemy craft. Almost immediately, two of the enemy ships disintegrated under the destroyer's withering barrage. A third actually turned into the _Ikenga_'s cannonade, either an attempt to offer up a diversion, or possibly a suicide run, either way, the move meeting very little success as the ship absorbed a punishing fusillade that splintered it apart.

The last two ships, however, managed to jink and evade the _Ikenga_'s fire, dropping rapidly down towards Kazbek's outer atmosphere, their flight paths at an almost suicidally steep angle.

"What the hell are they doing?" muttered Major Burke, her brow furrowing as she watched the enemy ships dive in.

His own concern growing as he watched the ships continue to dive in below and away from _Ikenga_'s firing solution, Runel looked across the plot table at Burke.

"Major, advise fire control to open up on those craft with all actionable batteries," he said evenly as he focused his attention back in on the screens overhead.

"Sir, at that angle, they're just as likely to burn up on entry," countered Burke evenly.

"I've issued my orders, Major," said Runel, his tone enough of a warning that he didn't bother to glare across at her.

Taking a quick breath, Burke snatched up the handset on her side of the plot table and relayed the order.

Almost as soon as she began to place her handset back into place, the sound of _Galactica_'s forward mounts opening up began to filter through the air around CIC.

While it was clear the enemy ships were taking great strides to try and avoid the withering fire now being thrown up by the Colonial Warstar, their approach angle was such that only a few of her forward mounted batteries were able to engage.

Nevertheless, fate seemed to intervene a moment later as the two ships pulled out of their suicidally steep dive, leveling off into a more survivable descent pattern, just enough of a change in angle that some of _Galactica_'s rounds finally hit home, one of the craft absorbing several impacts that sent it's shattered debris tumbling down into the atmosphere.

The final craft, however, suffered only a glancing blow, a section of its rear shearing away. In spite of the damage, the craft continued to descend down into the upper atmosphere of Kazbek, its outer hull quickly beginning to glow red-hot from friction as it drifted down below _Galactica_'s firing solution.

"Gods damn," muttered Runel bitterly as he watched the ship continue to drop towards the surface, damaged but still plainly under control. "Captain Cohen, advise the gunships to angle in on that ship for intercept."

"Sir, we may have a problem," called Lieutenant Cortez, his tone laced with urgency.

"Spit it out, Lieutenant," said Runel as he glanced over at Cortez.

"That ship's descent angle is still a bit steep, our rounds definitely did some damage," replied Cortez as he swiveled around to look back over at Colonel Runel. "BDA suggests it may only have minimal flight control left."

"So much the better, Lieutenant," sighed Runel as he returned his attention to DRADIS.

"No, sir, you don't understand; if it maintains its current trajectory, it will be coming down right on top of our extraction birds on the surface."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****ISSCV Nine-Eight-Zero-Zero-Six  
><strong>**300 meters outside Kazbek Internment Facility**

As he made his way into the cockpit, Captain Nathan West looked out past the canopy at the myriad of ISSCV's and Colonial Raptors making final preparations for lift-off.

As he heard the ship's engines throttle up to high idle, West glanced down at the Air Force Captain in the pilot's seat, his uniform insignia pegging him as a member of the Air Force's Forty-First Rescue Squadron, the 'Jolly Greens'.

"We ready to pull out of here yet?" asked West as he mentally took in the numerous differences in this newer Mark Two ISSCV's avionics and flight controls.

"Sir, you might want to go ahead and take a seat with the rest of the passengers in the back," called the Lieutenant seated in the co-pilot seat as she glanced back over her shoulder at him.

"Not on your life, Lieutenant," smirked West as he looked back over into her strikingly attractive blue eyes. "I've spent a lot of time on the ground lately; as a pilot, it feels good to be in a cockpit, even if I'm only a spectator."

As the Captain in the pilot's seat let out a light chuckle, he motioned over at his co-stick.

"It's alright, Jovanovich," he said evenly as he gently flexed his fingers around the throttle controls. "The Captain here is just interested in seeing our new toy here in action; Jarheads like him are still flying around those old Mark One crates."

Chuckling slightly, the Lieutenant, apparently named Jovanovich, returned her attention to her flight controls.

As he was about to launch himself into an inter-service rivalry tirade about how spoiled Air Force Zoomies were, West paused as he caught sight of the abrupt change in the Captain's expression.

"You're going to want to find a seat, Captain," snapped Lieutenant Jovanovich as she and the pilot began feverishly working the craft's flight controls.

Before he could respond, West glanced out the cockpit and watched as a good number of the Colonial Raptors around the landing zone all but leapt into the air. But instead of ascending skyward, the Colonial craft very quickly banked away, scattering out across the valley as the heavier ISSCV's began to likewise lift from the ground.

"What the hell's happening?" snapped West as he watched the pilot slam the throttles full open, the pilot's eyes intently locked on the LIDAR as he likewise pulled the ship into a wide turn out over the plain.

"Enemy ship coming down out of control right over our heads," replied the pilot flatly, his attention never leaving the myriad of contacts lifting off of the ground below them, clearly anxious to avoid a collision as he too began to peel away from the landing zone.

Panic coursing into his body, West held on tightly to the pilot and co-pilot seats with his hands as he watched the horizon angle away with the pilot's sharp turn.

With his panic giving way to subdued terror, West caught sight of an object streaking in towards the landing zone, the wedge-shaped outline of a Chig transport careening in, trailing smoke and flames off of its red-hot hull as it rocketed in towards the vulnerable formation of ships still fighting to gain altitude.

"Come on, baby," burst the pilot as he continued to pull the nose of the heavily-laden ship around, the screaming engines still fighting against the pull of gravity as they clawed the craft skyward.

His hand reflexively pushing against the already maxed-out throttle controls, the pilot gritted his teeth as he glanced up and caught sight of the object falling from the sky, looming in as though it were aiming straight for them.

At the last possible second, the pilot managed to throw the ISSCV over even more, quite nearly pushing the ship over onto its side, a last ditch desperate evasive to get out of the falling enemy ship's path as it plummeted towards the plain below. As the pilot fought to correct the ISSCV's pitch and yaw angle before it too fell out control to the ground, the nose of the ship heeled back around the opposite direction…

…Just in time for West to watch in utter horror as the falling enemy ship cleaved its way through three other ISSCV's that hadn't been able to get out of the way in time.

Striking the first one dead-center, the two halves of the craft erupted in flames as it split apart in mid-air, both sections tumbling like pinwheels out of the sky, tossing debris and flailing bodes as the two pieces crashed to the ground.

The second ISSCV had its left wing sheared away, the craft immediately going into a dizzying flat spin until it too slammed hard into the ground, a cloud of dust and smoke shooting into the air from the impact.

The third craft was hit hard in the aft section, its nose instantly pitching directly upwards, ruthlessly robbing the ship of what little lift it had managed to obtain, thick clouds of black smoke belching from the damaged rear section as it slid back down through the air tail first directly into the ground, the force of the impact crumpling the airframe and cargo module like a soda can as it impacted.

As the falling enemy ship streaked by a fourth near-victim, it slammed headlong into the ground, sliding on its belly, kicking up dirt and dust as it plowed through the shattered fence line of the encampment and burrowed through several of the outer-lying prisoner huts before finally coming to rest in a smoldering heap, flames licking into the air as the wood from the huts instantly caught fire against the red-hot exterior.

As he listened to the litany of cries and calls echo out over the radio regarding the three downed ISSCV's, West's mind went numb; having watched them go down, he knew the chances of any survivors from the three wrecked ships was slim to none.

To die so close to freedom…

Dipping his head slightly as the pilot slowly settled the ISSCV back to the ground, West felt himself stir as he turned and burst back into the rear passenger compartment.

"West, what the hell is going on?" snapped Hawkes as he clawed his way forward past the throngs of shocked former prisoners.

"Looks like a Chig transport got knocked from orbit," muttered West as he absently pointed up at the stream of blood trickling down the side of Hawkes' face. "It smashed through three ISSCV's before it hit the ground."

Reaching up, Hawkes touched the trickling blood with his fingers, looking blankly at the red smear as though he himself had no clue how he'd been injured.

"Must have hit my head," he muttered as he watched West push his way towards the egress hatch, snatching back up the rifle he'd grabbed off the Silicates as he went. "Hey, wait, West, what are you doin', man?"

"Didn't you hear me? We have three ships down, there could be survivors," replied West, knowing damn well the likelihood of such was close to nil, but nevertheless unwilling to give up without even looking.

"West, we're in no shape for a fight here," said Hawkes as he stepped up to his friend, motioning around at the stunned faces of the freed prisoners arrayed around the passenger compartment as he did so.

"Just make sure that pilot doesn't lift off till I'm back aboard," snapped West as he slapped his hand down onto the button that opened the egress hatch, a thick cloud of dust and smoke almost instantly billowing in.

"Oh, the hell I will," replied Hawkes as he reached over and snatched up another of the weapons they'd grabbed from the Silicates.

As he moved to follow West out the egress hatch, Hawkes glanced back over his shoulder, catching sight of Vansen, Wang and Damphousse as they sat watching him.

"Shane, make sure they don't take back off," called Hawkes as he stood in the entryway.

"You didn't leave us behind, we sure as hell aren't leaving you behind," she grinned, he voice tired but resolute.

As Hawkes turned and leapt out onto the ground, the entryway leading to the cockpit opened up, the co-pilot making her way quickly into the passenger compartment.

"Who the hell opened the egress hatch?" she shouted.

"My friend left his wallet behind," replied Wang, smirking a bit as he motioned with his head over at the open entryway. "It's kind of important; he's got a condom in there he's been holding onto since he was fourteen, kind of a good luck charm, he didn't want to leave it behind."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Kazbek Internment Facility**

As she slowly peeled herself back off the ground, Captain Jordan Gaines kept a wary eye on the smoldering wreckage of the destroyed prisoner huts.

"Bowman?" she called tentatively, her eyes never leaving the shattered structures.

"Right here, Captain," replied Bowman, coughing a bit from the dust and smoke swirling through the air as he stepped up, rifle poised at the ready. "What the frak was that?"

"It looked like an enemy transport similar to the one we fragged when we first stumbled into this mess," replied Gaines as she glanced over and watched several of the hastily scrambled Earth transports and Raptors settled back onto the ground near the three wrecked ships that had been knocked from the sky.

"Ah, the good old days," smirked Bowman as he glanced back over at the other members of the Marine team pushing themselves up from the ground.

With the smashed wooden huts fully engulfed, the flames now reaching a few dozen meters into the sky, Gaines felt the sweltering heat of the inferno licking across her exposed skin, felt its sting even through the fabric of her uniform.

Just then, the Earth special-ops team that had gone inside the administrative building stepped up on either side of her.

"What happened?" asked Warrant Officer Bekhterev simply.

"An enemy transport got clipped up in orbit," replied Gaines evenly. "Ship smashed through a couple transports as they tried to get out of the way then slammed into those structures over there."

"On the bright side, not likely to be any living bad guys after a landing like that," muttered Bowman as he looked back over at the crash, the rest of the Marines stepping up as the crackle of flames continued to echo in the air.

Glancing over at Bowman, it took Gaines a moment to remember that he too had been issued a translator device for the mission.

"Cleaning Crew_, this is _Galactica_-Actual_."

Slapping her hand down onto the wireless transmit button, Gaines took in a deep breath, the acrid scent of the burning huts choking her a bit.

"This is _Cleaning Crew_, go ahead Actual," she said, coughing a bit.

"_DRADIS track and reports from retrieval craft show the hostile came down in your area, can you confirm_?"

"That's affirmative, Actual, we have eyes on it now," replied Gaines, struggling to keep from chuckling at her own understatement as she watched the flames continue to leap skyward. "Looks like it knocked down three ships during its descent; we could have some heavy casualties down here."

"_Copy, we have additional medical and transport teams on their way down now_," replied Colonel Runel evenly. "_Any signs of enemy survivors_?"

"Not any we've been able to see so far, Actual," replied Gaines as she reflexively thumbed her rifle safety off. "All the same, if you can get those gunships that scattered when this thing came down back over here, it would be appreciated."

"_Copy that, gunships are already en route back to your location_."

* * *

><p><strong>ISSCV Nine-Two-Zero-Five-Five Crash-Site<strong>

Quickly slinging his weapon over his shoulder, Captain Nathan West stepped up to the smashed hulk of forward section of the ISSCV that had been cleaved in two. In spite of the flames billowing from the remains of the cargo container, the sickening stench of burning flesh wafting through the air, West worked his way close enough to peer through the canopy glass into the flight deck. Inside, he could see the outlines of the craft's pilot and co-pilot, neither of whom was moving.

Reaching over, West clasped hold of the emergency canopy release, giving the handle a quick yank that instantly blew the small explosive bolts holding the canopy panels in place.

As Hawkes raced up beside him, West swung his weapon back down off his shoulder and handed it over. As Hawkes quickly slung it beside his own over his shoulder, he wordlessly clasped his hands together, instantly providing West with a foot-hold with which the InVitro helped hoist him up inside the cockpit. Jostling about inside the smoke-filled compartment, West reached over and pressed his fingers against the neck of the pilot.

No pulse.

Bending down to take in a breath of the less acrid air hanging close to the deck, he then reached over and likewise checked for a pulse from the co-pilot.

Slow and weak, but nevertheless there.

"West, you need to hurry, flames are getting thicker," cried Hawkes as he glanced in.

"Pilot's dead, but the co-pilot still has a pulse," coughed West as he began fumbling with the retaining straps holding the insensate co-pilot in his seat.

As he finally worked the straps free, West struggled against his own fatigued muscles to drag the co-pilot towards the opening in the canopy. Clasping his hands around the unconscious man's torso, West firmly planted his feet, then lifted with all of remaining might, a heavy grunt escaping his lips at the exertion, but nevertheless managing to get the co-pilot's upper body out through the canopy opening.

As he slumped back, more-or-less spent, West coughed, gasping for a full breath as smoke continued to pour into the cockpit from the fires. As he collected himself, West watched thankfully as the co-pilot was pulled the rest of the way out of the cockpit.

Mustering himself into one last effort, West all but leapt towards the opening, taking in a deep gulp of the less acrid air outside as he felt several sets of hands suddenly grasp a hold of his arms. Looking up, West was surprised to see not Hawkes, but Vansen, Wang, Colonel Najafi and Lieutenant Jovanovich as they all heaved him out of the cockpit.

As the five of them fell heavily to the ground, West glanced over and saw that Hawkes and Damphousse were already moving the still-unconscious co-pilot away from the wreckage as the flames continued to work their way forward.

"We must get away from here," coughed Colonel Najafi as he clambered back to his feet and began moving away.

As Vansen, Wang, Jovanovich and West fell into step behind him, the group raced away from the burning wreckage, apparently distancing themselves just in time to avoid an explosion that ripped through the already shattered airframe.

As he continued to will his leaden feet forward, running on little more than a waning surge of adrenaline, West glanced up in time to see the reformed squadron of gunships angling back in towards the site where the fallen Chig transport had come to rest.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Kazbek Internment Facility**

As she kneeled down over the portable detonator panel, Captain Jordan Gaines cast a wary eye over towards Warrant Officer Bekhterev as he and his team slowly made their way towards the crashed enemy transport. Although there was still no indication of any possible survivors from the downed craft, Gaines could see that the Spec-Operators were taking nothing for granted, their weapons very much at the ready as they made their way forward.

Letting out a sigh, Gaines focused her attention back in on the panel before her, reaching up inside her collar to pull out the small key attached to her dog-tag chain.

Slipping the key into one of the two key-slots on the panel, she then glanced over at Bowman as he likewise pulled a second key from around his neck. Taking the key from Bowman, she slid it into the second key hole, glancing up in time to catch him giving Gaines a slight nod.

Slipping her gloved fingers onto both keys, Gaines held her breath as she turned them simultaneously, the panel's screen flashing to life.

As the screen resolved itself, three highlighted lines appeared, the cursor blinking expectantly on the first.

"Okay, Bowman, crack your cipher card and read me the first code sequence," sighed Gaines as she poised her fingers over the panel's small keyboard.

Reaching into one of his gear pouches, Bowman pulled out the small plastic-encased card, cracked the case in half, then pulled the red laminated card contained inside free, unfolding it as he held it up.

"Alpha-Alpa-Six-Zero-Eight-Tango-Echo-Two-Four-Niner-Delta-Constellation-Five-Seven-Zero," he said evenly.

As Bowman rattled off the code, Gaines punched in the individual keys, the cursor automatically moving down to the second line as the sequence ended.

Reaching up into a pouch on her own gear, Gaines then pulled out a second encased card, cracked open the plastic cover, and pulled out the card.

"Now read me the second sequence," she said as she handed the card to Bowman.

Pausing only long enough to glance over at the progress the Spec-Ops team was making towards the enemy crash site, the fires around the smashed huts having died down, but a large plume of black smoke still rising ominously into the air overhead, Bowman cleared his throat as he looked down at the card Gaines had handed him.

"Gamma-Papa-Three-Zero-One-Icon-Tango-Eight-Three-One…"

The sound of weapons fire echoing out across the courtyard cut Bowman off mid-sentence, he, Gaines and the rest of the Marine team all but dropping reflexively to their bellies, eyes and muzzles anxiously scanning the area.

* * *

><p>As <em>Práporshchik<em> Bekhterev and his team continued to make their way across the courtyard, the fires surrounding the downed enemy ship were dying out, the wood from the wrecked prisoners huts having been pretty much burned away, the outline of the shattered enemy transport now more fully visible underneath the pile of charred ruins.

The sound of a loud crash echoing out from the wreckage had barely registered in his mind when the sound of gunfire echoed out across the courtyard.

As the searing pain of the hit he had taken to his leg sliced its way through Bekhterev's consciousness, his body falling hard to the ground as his leg gave way, he glanced to his left in time to see a significant portion of _Starshiná_ Dezhnyov's head explode in a sickening shower of mangled brain matter and blood, the remainder of his now-lifeless body quickly crumpling to the ground.

Grunting against the intense pain, Bekhterev nevertheless kept his wits as he flipped over onto his belly and proned himself out on the ground, reflexively pulling his rifle back up to his shoulder, letting off a short suppressive burst at the figure that had smashed its way out through a hole in the hull of the wrecked transport.

The figure, approximately two meters in height barely seemed to flinch as Bekhterev's burst slammed against it center-mass. Aiming back in, Bekhterev fired off another burst, his return fire again slamming into the figure, knocking it off balance momentarily but having little other noticeable effect as it recovered enough to raise back up its own weapon and fire off a burst.

Sucking in a breath as the dirt around him exploded in a hail of tiny puffs from the enemy impacts, Bekhterev heard the heartening reports of two more weapons echo out into the air from behind him, _Serzhánt_ Bodrova and _Serzhánt_ Kovalenko falling onto line with him, crawling forward on either side of him as they alternated firing at the figure.

Letting off a third burst from his rifle, his rounds again seeming to have little effect beyond momentarily knocking his target off-balance, Bekhterev watched with stoic horror as nearly a dozen more figures emerged from the hole in the smashed hull of the transport.

* * *

><p>Although one of their team members had quite clearly taken a critical hit to the head and was now lying motionless, Gaines was nevertheless encouraged to see the three surviving members of the Spec-Ops team had proned themselves out on the ground and were returning fire. As Gaines and her team likewise dropped to a prone position on the ground, their eyes frantically searched for the source of the gunfire that had erupted from over near the crashed enemy transport.<p>

"Target, direct front, four hundred meters!" shouted Bowman as he popped up to a knee and fired off a burst, the rest of the Marines likewise opening up a moment later.

Focusing her attention in the direction Bowman had indicated, Gaines' eyes instantly went wide, her already dry mouth becoming even drier with dread as she watched a dozen figures advance unharmed from the midst of the smoldering inferno of the crash site.

As she watched the figures continue to push through the withering fire being laid down by both her Marines as well as the surviving Spec-Ops team pinned down nearby, Gaines felt her heart racing within her chest, a desperate hope welling up within her that what she was seeing with her eyes was anything but true.

And yet, in that moment, watching as the figures continued to push relentlessly forward from the wreckage of the ship that had apparently brought them to the surface of Kazbek, the sun and fires glinting off their armored exteriors, Captain Jordan Gaines' mind could only conjure up one single, terrible thought.

Ignoring her own phobia regarding the thermonuclear warhead still poised behind her, Gaines felt a surge of rage roll through her as she slammed her hand down on the transmit button for her wireless set.

"_Galactica, Cleaning Crew_," she began, pausing as her mind reeled over what she was about to say. "Contact with Cylon infantry, I say again, _Cylon Centurions_ on the ground, request _immediate_ gunship support!"

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Warstar **_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

As Captain Gaines' transmission echoed out through the air, Colonel Thadius Runel felt as though his heart had dropped into freefall as he looked across into the plainly shocked expression of Major Tyra Burke.

"Oh, my gods," was all she managed to choke out.

"We need everything, and I mean _everything_ to vector in on that location right fraking now," snapped Runel as he whipped his head around to face Captain Cohen. "All evac transports are to get the hell up to orbit, but I need all gunships to target that area and light it up with everything they have."

"Understood," replied Cohen instantly as he raised his handset back to his ear and relayed Colonel Runel's order.

"Petty Officer Dupree, advise _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ to push into a higher position and prepare for immediate action," continued Runel as he snapped his attention back to the screens overhead. "If there are Centurions on the ground then there's likely a Baseship nearby ready to jump in on top of us."

"Aye, sir."

"Major Burke, I want _all_ fighters to sortie immediately," continued Runel as his eyes continued to scan the DRADIS display for any signs of the enemy. "All squadrons, Earth and Colonial, are to be in the air and ready for full engagement, and I want it done yesterday."

"Understood, sir," replied Burke as she snatched up the handset on her side of the plot table and toggled the switch for the flight decks.

Reaching down, Runel grabbed up his own handset and toggled the buzzer for Fire Control.

"_Battery plot_."

"Prep all main batteries for action, one-to-one load, HE to AP," snapped Runel as his already rapidly rising heartbeat pounded still harder in his chest. "Secondary batteries are to standby for counter-fighter action, initial perimeter barrier to be set at five-zero-K from _Galactica_."

"_Understood_."

As he dropped his handset down away from his ear, Runel cast his gaze back over to Captain Cohen.

"Where are we with the evac and gunship support?"

"Final evac of all confirmed survivors from our three down birds is complete, ISSCV's lifting off now, gunships angling around for direct fire support."

"Advise them they are cleared hot; turn that crash site into a crater."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Raptor Zero-Three-Seven**

His hand gripping the control stick like a man teetering over the edge of a cliff, Ensign Kendal Mendez continued to bank the Raptor in a wide orbit around the valley.

With the order having come down for all evac ships to clear out, the vast formation of Earth transports and Raptors were making rapid ascents from the valley floor, looking very much like a mixed flock of startled birds racing to escape a charging predator.

In a very real way, it was an impression that was very much apt.

With Captain Gaines apparently reporting the presence of Cylon Centurions on the surface, the game had changed; no longer was this just a rescue and retrieval mission, they were now racing against the clock to clear the hell out before any possible Cylon Basestars or Raiders appeared.

Licking his dry lips as he watched Ensign Athari drop heavily back into the seat beside him, Mendez looked down on DRADIS and watched as the long line of Earth gunships came back around and prepared to make an attack run on the crash site inside the encampment.

"Frak, I knew it," muttered Athari as she quickly adjusted the straps holding her to her seat. "It was only a matter of time before those Cylon mother-frakers caught back up with us."

"Yeah, well just hold on tight," replied Mendez as he cast his eyes back out onto the activity in the valley. "As soon as she calls for it, we've still got to make our way down there to pull the Captain and her team out."

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Cabanatuan<br>****Kazbek Internment Facility**

As the thunderous cacophony of weapons fire continued to echo out through the area, Captain Jordan Gaines knelt down in front of the detonator panel, a red-laminated code card in one hand as she feverishly tapped the code itself in with the other.

Pausing a moment to make sure she had punched the second sequence in properly, Gaines stuffed the card unceremoniously into her hip cargo pocket as she glanced up to see the line of Earth gunships angling in for their attack run.

The sound of a round cracking through the air next to her startled Gaines, enough so that she all but flopped down to the ground. A moment later, she felt her upper arm begin to burn, a sensation that quickly drew her attention to the jagged hole ripped into the upper sleeve of her uniform.

Poking her gloved finger in the hole, Gaines was surprisingly relieved when it poked back out a second exit hole.

Bleeding though she was, Gaines realized that the round had merely grazed her.

Shuffling back over towards the detonator panel, Gaines looked back over towards the dozen figures, the hail of gunfire from her Marines clearly impacting their targets but truly doing little more than momentarily stunning them.

Gods damned if it hadn't just turned into the worst possible moment for her team to have been issued the soft-core ammo instead of the harder AP rounds; this had all the bad makings of a replay of the slaughter at the depot airfield all over again.

Just then, Gaines heard the blessedly deafening roar of the gunships opening up, a barrage of heavy cannon fire and rockets slamming into the area around the crash site.

With plumes of dust and smoke blasting into the sky, Gaines watched as two of the metal figures all but disintegrated under the heavy barrage.

"_Galactica_, _Cleaning Crew_, standing-by for final code sequence for warhead," shouted Gaines as she huddled back in over the control panel and waited for a response. "_Galactica_, do you copy?"

"_This is Actual, final sequence is as follows_," replied Colonel Runel a moment later, his tone clear and precise as he began reading off the code.

As the sound of several more pounding explosions echoed out across the courtyard, Gaines very deliberately concentrated her mind in on the transmission, her poised finger tapping each key as Colonel Runel spoke.

After she had finished punching in the sequence, Gaines quickly read it back for verification.

"_That's a solid copy_, Cleaning Crew," replied Runel when Gaines completed repeating the code sequence.

With the proper arming codes entered, Gaines pressed down on the another key, the screen instantly switching to a counter sequence, the blinking cursor indicating she needed to manually punch in a count-down time.

Frak.

How long should she make it for?

Gaines, having focused all of her attention on punching in the code sequence, now looked up and saw that all of the figures that had emerged from the crashed ship were now lying on the ground, or were lying in several pieces scattered across the ground, amid a very significant field of settling dust, smoke and blast craters.

"_Cleaning Crew_ to Raptor Zero-Three-Seven, how quickly can you be on deck?"

"_We're currently two minutes out to your North-North-East_."

Wary of the unmoving metal figures, Gaines nevertheless glanced over at the members of her team, each of them in turn looking expectantly back over at her.

"We need to see if any of those Spec-Ops guys survived, Captain," offered Bowman as he motioned his head over towards the four figures lying motionless on the ground midway across the courtyard.

Nodding, Gaines glanced up and saw that although they'd stopped firing, the gunships overhead were nevertheless continuing to tightly orbit the area, clearly watching for any further signs of movement around the crash site.

Glancing out across the plain as the last of the extraction ships lifted off the ground and nosed skyward, Gaines looked back down at the blinking cursor.

"Raptor Zero-Three-Seven, get your ass down here and have your ECO be ready to help us with possible wounded," snapped Gaines, releasing the transmit button a moment alter as she quickly tapped an arbitrary number into the counter.

Grabbing hold of both of the keys still inserted in the panel, Gaines turned them in unisons, the countdown commencing a moment later. Pulling both keys back out of the panel, Gaines stuffed them into her pocked along with the cipher card as she jumped back up to her feet.

"Candor, hold position here, if anything not-human comes anywhere near that warhead, kill it," said Gaines evenly.

"Aye, Captain," nodded Corporal Candor.

Pulling back on the bolt of her rifle, the gleaming brass of the chambered round glistening in the sunlight, Gaines motioned with her hand for the rest of her Marines to begin making their way out towards the four motionless Spec-Ops team members.

With their weapons and eyes locked on the unmoving metal figures littering the ground nearby, Gaines and her team quickly made their way across the courtyard, the sound of their retrieval Raptor screaming in for a landing echoing out amid the continued drone of the gunships overhead.

But as her team got closer to the carnage unleashed by the gunships, Gaines quickly realized that something seemed off about the chrome figures littering the area.

To be sure, every last one bore the clear signs of having absorbed a truly punishing amount of firepower from the gunship strikes, but as she stepped closer, Gaines saw that all of the figures around the area were of a distinctly different design from the Centurions she and her Marines had faced back on Sagittaron.

Unlike the tall, sleek, unquestionably swift and deadly Cylons her Marines had fought and nearly been overrun by back in Serenity Valley, these units had more in common with the Centurion models that had fought during the first Cylon War; bulkier, more heavily armored but far less agile. Perhaps most strangely of all, these models didn't have the forearm mounted weapons like the ones they'd faced back on Sagittaron. Indeed, scattered amid the shattered forms were a mix of fairly standard-looking firearms, most not unlike those carried by the various Earth military forces she'd encountered.

Why would Cylons be using Earth weapons?

Perhaps more importantly, why would Cylon Centurions revert to an older, and to Gaines' eye, less advanced model?

As they finally stepped up beside the Spec-Operators, Gaines could plainly see that one of them had indeed sustained a fatal head-wound, the entire left side of the man's head little more than a shattered mess, blood, bone fragments and brain-matter littering the ground around his body.

Thankfully, as her team knelt down beside the others, Gaines could see that although they were clearly wounded, the other three members of the Special-Ops team were none-the-less still alive.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Gaines watched as the evac-Raptor settled down onto the ground, a whirlwind of dust erupting into the air as the side-hatch began to rise, the ship's co-pilot quickly leaping down off the winglet with her sidearm drawn.

Returning her attention to her people as they began applying pressure bandages to the wounds sustained by the Spec-Ops team-members, Gaines took a deep breath as she likewise knelt down beside them.

"Did your team place the warhead, Captain?" asked Bekhterev as he adjusted his translator earpiece, grunting in pain a moment later as Bowman tied-off a compress on his leg wound.

"Set and counting," nodded Gaines.

"Then it would be a good idea for us to depart quickly," he grunted, taking firm hold of Bowman's forearm as the Marine hauled Bekhterev back to his feet.

"We'll need to carry the others, Captain," snapped Corporal Peters as she pressed firmly down upon the dressing she'd placed over the chest wound of the female Spec-Ops team-member.

"Ensign Athari!" shouted Gaines as she waved the Raptor's ECO over.

Jogging up, Athari kept a wary eye on the metal figures lying about the area, but nevertheless holstered her sidearm as Gaines motioned her over towards Peters.

As Athari and Peters lifted the gravely wounded woman from the ground, Jahnigen and Benavidez picked up the other man, his wounds less grievous, but still serious enough that he'd have to be carried as well. As Bekhterev watched the two surviving members of his team get carried off towards the waiting Raptor, he cast a glance back down at the plainly deceased member of his team.

"I've known Dezhnyov since the AI Rebellion," muttered Bekhterev, as close to an emotional display as Gaines had yet seen from the man. "Is there any chance we can return with his body as well, Captain?"

Pausing, Gaines looked Bekhterev directly in the eye.

"As a leader, surely you can understand my need to bring _all_ the members of my team home, dead or alive, yes?" continued Bekhterev, the strength of his convictions on this point very much evident in his tone.

Letting out a long sigh, Gaines nodded, then turned and looked back over towards Corporal Candor, the Marine still poised over near the warhead. With a very broad motion of her hand, Gaines waved Candor over as she turned and looked back over at Bekhterev.

"If you can walk on your own, sir, then I will make sure we bring him home," she replied..

"Then I can walk," said Bekhterev simply as he let go of Bowman and began limping his way towards the waiting Raptor.

"Yes, Captain?" asked Candor a moment later as he jogged up.

Looking back over at Bowman, Gaines reached back and yanked a small bundle roll free from her gear.

"Bowman, you and Candor wrap the body in this poncho," muttered Gaines as she handed the bundle over to Bowman.

"Aye, Captain," replied Bowman simply as he quickly spread the poncho out beside the body.

It took only a few moments for Bowman and Candor to wrap the body of the fallen Spec-Operator within Gaines' poncho, the two of them carrying the body between them as they set off across the courtyard towards the waiting Raptor.

As she watched the living, the wounded and the dead get loaded into the Raptor, the small ship's engines continuing to scream as high idle, a clear reminder of the urgency that still surrounded the moment, Captain Jordan Gaines still couldn't help but cast another glance back over to the metallic bodies lying scattered across the ground.

With her relentless curiosity about why the Cylons had seemingly reverted to an older, less advanced form overriding her all-too-acute awareness that a thermonuclear warhead was slowly ticking its way towards detonation just a few hundred meters away, Gaines quickly made her way over towards one of the metallic corpses lying nearby.

With its limbs sheared away, the remains of the metal torso sat at the edge of a small crater, no doubt the remnants of the rocket impact that had blown its appendages off in the first place.

Gently flexing her gloved fingers around the grips of her weapon, Gaines slowly raised her muzzle up as she stepped still closer. Finally, after she had stepped close enough to be standing almost directly over the shattered metal form, Gaines felt a shiver go up her spine and her skin go deathly cold as it slowly turned its head to look at her.

"You will soon die, Carbonite," it muttered, the voice slow, distorted, but nevertheless understandable.

"Carbonite?" muttered Gaines as she slowly pointed her muzzle directly at the shattered form's head. "That's what the Silicates call humans, not Cylons."

As the metallic head slowly titled to one side, Gaines felt another shiver go up her spine; in spite of the distinct absence of anything that might be considered lips, she nevertheless got the impression that the metallic monstrosity was somehow smirking at her.

"Such limited creatures you are, flawed, weak; how pathetic that even now you fail to understand what should be as clear as the noses on your little primate faces," it continued, pausing as it again tilted its head. "Yes, the end of your species has been a _long_ time in coming, but so much the better when the fate your sins and arrogance have sown finally overtakes you."

Taking deep, steadying breaths, Gaines resisted the unremitting urge to pull the trigger, the tingle along her spine telling her that there was clearly more to this situation than she had initially assumed.

"You're _not_ a Cylon," she muttered, scowling slightly as she continued to fight the panic-driven impulse to shoot. "What the hell are you?"

"I am the shape of things to come."

Just them, Corporal Bowman appeared at Gaines' side. Casting a cautious eye and the muzzle of his rifle down towards what he quickly surmised was a still-functioning, if limbless machine, Bowman gave Gaines' shoulder a gentle nudge.

"Much as I hate to interrupt, I do feel it is my duty to remind the Captain that there is a live thermonuclear warhead counting down over there, ma'am," said Bowman evenly.

Glancing over at Bowman for a moment, her mind running through a rapid estimation of how much time remained before the area was engulfed in a nuclear fireball, Gaines looked back down into the metal face of her enemy, her eyes burning with resolve as she aimed in and fired a single round that smashed through the creature's head.

"Let's get the hell out of here," muttered Gaines bitterly as she turned and raced back over to the Raptor, Bowman barely a pace behind.

As Gaines and Bowman scrambled up onto the Raptor's winglet, the gunships circling overhead suddenly broke and began climbing for orbit.

As she stepped down into the rear compartment, Gaines looked around at her huddled Marines, at Corporal Peters as she continued to tend to the seriously wounded Spec-Ops woman, over at the somber, silent Bekhterev as he sat beside the shrouded form of his fallen teammate, then slammed her hand down onto the button that closed the side entry hatch.

"We're in!" called Gaines as she grabbed a handful of the cargo netting.

"Oh, thank gods," snapped Ensign Munez as he slammed the Raptor's throttles full open.

But as the ship rose from the ground and rocketed away from the shattered internment camp, Captain Jordan Gaines' eyes continued to wander, taking in the exhausted, relieved expressions of her Marines, their faces and uniforms smeared with dirt and blood, the smudged outlines of bloody handprints on the Raptor's bulkhead and rear console as Peters desperately slapped another field dressing onto the blood-soaked one beneath her hands, the sight of a motionless body shrouded in a poncho as a friend sat in stoic vigil beside it.

As her mind grappled with absorbing and processing these latest images of the horrors and irretrievable costs of war, her memory was caught up amid a whirlwind of other equally potent images.

Of the depot airfield, when pools of blood had collected beneath shredded and unmoving bodies littering the tarmac as horrific screams of impotent rage and terror cut through air…

Of Serenity Valley, the thundering staccato of gunfire punctuating the moment when she'd looked down and seen the naked panic in Marius' eyes as he choked on his own blood…

Of an unknown moon, the still night air giving little notice to the butchered and torn bodies lying in the dust…

And amid this maelstrom of blood and loss churning relentlessly through her mind's eye, one phrase seemed to rise up like an ungodsly leviathan within her consciousness, a menacing shadow that cast itself across her very soul.

"_I am the shape of things to come_."


	13. Shifting Tides

**Aero-Tech Corporate Headquarters  
><strong>**Las Vegas, Nevada**

To be sure, the price he'd been forced to pony up to Dillinger had been steep.

Hell, even making the arrangements for the payment itself had been problematic; with most every financial institution worldwide spurred by government oversight to be hyper-vigilant for signs of potential fraud or money-laundering, obtaining twenty-million dollars worth of physical negotiable-bearer bonds had required him to expend no mean sum of additional capital to pay-off any possible whistleblowers.

But as he sat there, gently sipping at his glass of finely-aged scotch, Michael Lane's eyes were alight as he continued to pour over the Project UMO files he had reacquired from Dillinger.

Although Lane had skimmed the files before he'd initially purged them from the company mainframe, circumstances at the time had not allowed him the opportunity to fully appreciate the scope and breadth of what Aero-Tech had been attempting with the venture.

Indeed, the word 'ambitious' barely began to scratch the surface of what Aero-Tech had been aiming to accomplish. And yet, right when it could have begun paying dividends, an unexpected setback had forced Aero-Tech to hurriedly abandon the entire project.

"Oh, Wayne, you pathetically unimaginative son-of-a-bitch," smirked Lane as he slammed down the last of his scotch. "You could have had the world in your hands with this, but you were just too much of a vacillating coward to take advantage of it."

Setting the crystal glass back down on his desk, Lane snorted in amusement as he again savored the thought of his insufferable predecessor's fortuitous demise.

"Now if only _I_ knew exactly how to use this information," sighed Lane a moment later as he glanced back over at the screen.

In truth, that was the only real thing missing for Lane at this point. The files contained a true fount of knowledge, copious, even exhaustively detailed information that only lacked some clear directive on how he could best capitalize on the legacy of this particularly dark sin from Aero-Tech's past.

Reaching up to rub his sore eyes, Lane slowly swiveled his seat around to look out at the sparkling lights of the city beyond his panoramic window.

At this hour of the night, Las Vegas truly looked like a dazzling sea of glinting jewels, the lights shimmering as waves of early summer heat emanating from the steel and concrete diffused back into the stifling night air.

Glancing down at his watch, Lane smirked a bit as he thought of how few people were likely still in the building at that moment; a few IT guys, maybe a phone operator or two, a handful of security personnel…

…and one Chief Executive Officer intent on making sure his tenure didn't include overseeing Aero-Tech cede its preeminent position in the global aerospace and defense markets.

As he slowly closed his eyes, exhausted, the tingling effects of alcohol nipping at the edges of his perceptions, Lane felt a surge of irritation as he heard his phone ring.

Reaching over, Lane let out an annoyed snort as he snatched up the handset.

"What?" he snapped bitterly.

"_It's Dunmore_."

Rolling his eyes derisively at the sound of his Chief Operating Officer's voice, Lane seriously contemplated slamming the phone back down, most decidedly uninterested in listening to anything Dunmore might have to say at that moment.

"You'd better be calling to tell me that Weyland-Yutani has accepted our proposal to go in on a joint bid," huffed Lane as he glanced over and longingly eyed the crystal carafe of scotch sitting at the edge of his desk.

"_No, we're still waiting to hear back from their board,"_ replied Dunmore evenly. "_But since you have kept yourself effectively sequestered in your office for the better part of a day now, I thought I'd better give you a heads up_."

"Heads up about what?" muttered Lane, sitting up a bit in his seat.

"_A few minutes ago most of the major affiliates cut in with some breaking news; the _Galactica_ and her task force have returned_."

* * *

><p><strong>Dolphin Island<br>****In the Coral Sea  
><strong>**Approximately 100 Kilometers from the East Coast of Australia**

As he slowly made his way along the edge of the shore, his bare feet tingling a bit from the feel of the hot sand between his pale toes, Commander Sean Kelso paused and took in a deep breath of the salty sea air, savoring the sensation of the cool breeze coming off the water as it brushed across his reddening skin.

Looking out as the sun slowly began to descend below the horizon, Sean Kelso couldn't help but feel more than a touch hopeful; for the first time since the escape from the Colonies, a real chance to rebuild had at last been bestowed upon the huddled masses of the fleet.

True to their word, as soon as the _Galactica_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ had departed on their mission into enemy space, the myriad of nations that had troops of their own participating in the operation had co-sponsored a resolution during a meeting of the United Nations General Assembly that with their backing quickly cleaved through the remaining opposition to Colonial settlement on Earth.

While the resolution was still somewhat tentative, final approval presumably hinging on the safe return of _Galactica_ and her task force, the nation-state of Australia had nevertheless offered up one of the uninhabited islands it controlled for the Colonials to settle on.

So it was that barely a day after the resolution swept through approval in the General Assembly, several Earth military engineering teams descended upon Dolphin Island and set to work carving out an airstrip in the island's dense interior jungle. With the initial airstrip all but completed by the end of the first day, transports bearing supplies and materials for the construction of a small city's worth of shelters quickly followed. Although hardly luxurious, the prefab shelters that were quickly being erected were still a far cry better than the austere quarters and corridors of the old decoms and cramped commercial liners in orbit.

As construction forged ahead at a truly prodigious rate, President Bess, his cabinet as well as the first loads of the fleet's civilians were given clearance to at last begin the long-awaited migration to the veritable tropical paradise that had become their reward for enduring the hardships and privations of these last harrowing months.

With the rumbling howl of a flight of Raptors making final approach at the airfield echoing out through the tropical vegetation amid the din of power tools and construction vehicles carving out a nascent community, Commander Sean Kelso looked back out along the shore and grinned as he saw a myriad of other people, mostly civilians, who'd likewise ambled their way down to the shore and were like him soaking in the overwhelming beauty of their new home, the expressions on their faces betraying the wonderment they felt at witnessing a sight many of them had doubtless resigned themselves to never seeing again; the phenomenal glory of a setting sun.

Dropping his boots and uniform overcoat down onto the sand, Sean Kelso slowly made his way down to the water's edge, obliviously uncaring of the water lapping around the legs of his uniform as he continued on and began wading out knee-deep into the rolling surf. As he stood there, the warm brine of the sea washing across his legs, Kelso gently crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and again simply savored the feel of a real breeze on his skin. Even the beads of sweat born of the tropical temperatures were a welcome distraction, a delightful irony considering it was purportedly the winter season in Earth's southern hemisphere.

As he stood there, eyes closed, taking in another deep lungful of the salty sea air as the offshore wind caressed his body, his toes curling against the granules of submerged sand beneath his feet, Commander Sean Kelso felt the stirrings in his heart of a peace he had not been able to contemplate in some time; he had succeeded in his mission, he had found the survivors of the Cylon genocide a new home.

"Commander!"

Letting out a quick, slightly annoyed sigh at the shout that had sliced through his budding sense of serenity, Commander Kelso slowly turned around and caught sight of Petty Officer Rocca as she quickly made her way down to the water's edge.

"What is it, Rocca?" called Kelso, more-or-less refusing to budge for anything save…

"Sir, the _Galactica_ and her task force just jumped back into the system," replied Rocca, holding aloft the single sheet of paper in her hand.

Snapping into motion, Commander Kelso quickly began pushing his way back to the shore, his upper trousers becoming nearly as wet as his lower legs as he dashed his way back up though the waves.

As his bare feet once again hit dry sand, Rocca stepped up to him and handed the Commander the simple page printout.

As he took the printout from Rocca, Commander Kelso's eyes feverishly scanned over the truncated text.

'…_Recovered One-thousand One-hundred Seventy Allied POW; One-Hundred-One Allied/POW KIA, Three COL-KIA including GAL-CAG; Code Blue_…'

In an instant, Commander Kelso felt his heart-rate skyrocket.

Code Blue; the brevity code for possible Cylon contact.

Colonel Runel wouldn't have included that in his message unless he was damned certain.

Unceremoniously stuffing the printout into his pocket, Commander Kelso reached down, snatched up his uniform overcoat and boots, and with Rocca in trace, raced back up the beach.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Starboard Flight Pod  
><strong>**Hangar Deck**

Having remained in orbit of Kazbek only long enough to recover all of his aloft aircraft and verify the detonation of the nuclear warhead placed by Captain Gaines' team, Colonel Thadius Runel was still very much under the influence of a waning adrenaline-high as he stepped out into the hangar deck.

To be sure, as soon as he had dispatched his message to Commander Kelso signifying a Code Blue, possible contact with Cylon forces, Runel had been prepared for and was thus nowhere near surprised when he received word that the Commander was en route to _Galactica_ for a full report.

Although most of the Earth transports had immediately cleared the deck upon arriving back in Earth's solar system, bearing their cargo of repatriated POW's back to the world for which they had fought and suffered, a good number of the Earth fighters were still aboard, mostly to await refueling before they too returned to the planet.

As he made his way through the bustling activity in the hangar deck, Colonel Runel let out a long, tired breath as the myriad of deck gang and no small number of supplemental Earth support personnel worked to move and service the craft being brought down into the surprisingly packed area from the flight decks.

"Colonel Runel!"

Turning, Runel caught sight of Chief Copeland as she quickly cut a path through the activity.

"Just got word from the LSO; the Commander's Raptor is on final approach, sir, it'll be brought down on that lift over there."

"Thank you, Chief," nodded Runel as he turned and made his way through the coordinated chaos to the lift indicated by Copeland.

Taking in a deep breath, Runel made sure to stay off to one side as the deck gang slipped a Viper past him into one of the maintenance bays, the pilot emerging moments later as a couple knuckledraggers rolled a set of egress steps into place beside it.

It was then that Runel caught sight of the tail number of the Viper.

"Hey, are you Lieutenant Jonas?" called Runel as the pilot quickly signed off on her post-flight checklist.

Looking up, the woman caught sight of Runel, handed the checklist back to her plane chief, then quickly cut a path over to the Colonel.

"Yes, sir, I am," she stated, brushing the significant sweat on her forehead back through her already sweat-soaked hair a moment before she came to near-attention in front of the Colonel.

"Go ahead and stand at ease, Lieutenant," said Runel as he looked over at the young woman. "You're the pilot flying on Culver's wing when he went down?"

"Yes, sir, I was," replied the woman evenly, her voice clearly tired.

"Any idea what happened?"

"I noticed a possible fuel leak from under his port wing right before his ship blew up, sir," she sighed, shaking her head slightly at whatever images were passing through her mind in that moment. "The Major's ship got peppered pretty good in the initial barrage, must have punctured one of his tanks or a transfer line; if he had fuel vapor building up near a ruptured oh-two bottle, all it would have taken was a spark, it's almost a miracle his ship didn't go up sooner with all the maneuvering he was doing."

"Almost a miracle," sighed Runel, reaching up to rub at a sore muscle in his neck.

"I just wish I'd seen the leak sooner, he could have had a chance to punch out if I had," continued Jonas as she looked back over at Runel.

As he likewise looked back over at Jonas, Runel easily noted the somber lament in her eyes, the fatigue etched into her otherwise youthful face.

"Don't start second guessing yourself, Lieutenant," he said softly, at least, as softly as he could amid the din of activity taking place all around. "Too much second-guessing could cause you to hesitate, and hesitation can get you killed in combat. Now, go ahead and report back to your squadron CO for debrief and then go get some rest."

"Aye, sir."

Snapping her heels together, Lieutenant Jonas turned and quickly made her way over towards a growing cluster of other pilots no doubt on their way to the squadron ready room.

As he watched them go, Colonel Runel heard a warning alarm echo out signaling that a ship was being brought down on the lift next to him.

"This won't be fun," muttered Runel as he turned around and watched the airlock hatch to the lift begin to part.

As he watched the deck gang race forward, link up the aircraft mule, then slowly move the Raptor off the lift, Colonel Thadius Runel took in a deep breath as he caught sight of Commander Kelso all but leaping out of the forward co-pilot seat.

Indeed, even as the deck gang worked to maneuver the Raptor into one of the maintenance bays, Runel watched as Kelso, his expression one of clear impatience, ducked down under the rising egress hatch and all but vaulted his way down off the winglet.

"What happened?" snapped Kelso as his boots hit the deck, a curious amount of what Runel could only guess was sand falling free from the Commander's trouser cuffs from the impact.

"Best if I let Captain Gaines explain, Commander, her team were the ones who had contact," replied Runel simply as he began guiding the Commander through the flurry of activity around the hangar deck.

* * *

><p>"Now this might sting a bit, Captain," muttered Major Lefler as she leaned in closer to the jagged flesh wound on Gaines' arm, the curved point of a suture needle poised to pierce one edge of the gash.<p>

"Just do me a favor and try to make the stitches small, Doc," sighed Gaines as she looked away, sucking in a deep breath as Lefler punched the needle edge through.

In spite of the local anesthetic, Gaines still felt a bit of pain and burning as Lefler worked to pull the flesh ripped open by a bullet back together. Continuing to take deep breaths, Gaines tried to maintain her composure by focusing her attention in on a neat line of rivets in the bulkhead in front of her.

"How are those wounded Spec-Ops people doing, Doc?" asked Gaines as she continued to focus on anything but the pain in her arm.

"The Earth trauma teams are still working on them," muttered Lefler as she worked to tie off the first stitch. "I popped in to watch before you came in and I must say I'm impressed with their technique."

"Kind of surprised you let them hijack your OR," smirked Gaines. "I always heard you doctors were very territorial about who you let into your areas."

"Facts are facts; I'm just one doctor on a ship with nearly four thousand crew to look after," grinned Lefler as she began work on the next stitch. "Territorial or not, I'm not about to be ungrateful for the assistance; wish I'd had it after we jumped away from Leto's Twins, might have made a difference for some of the people we lost."

"Maybe," muttered Gaines, remembering all too well how much of a pounding the _Galactica_ had taken during the escape from the Cylons.

Just then, she heard the main entry hatch open up.

Glancing over, Gaines watched as Commander Kelso and Colonel Runel stepped in, the two of them immediately making their way over as Lefler continued to sew her wound back together.

"I understand you may have had a run-in with some old friends," muttered Kelso as he stepped up, his eyes darting over to the wound Lefler was tending to.

"You could say that, sir," sighed Gaines as she looked back over at the Commander, the exposed skin on his face and hands clearly reddened. "With respect, Commander, did you get a little too close to a Raptor during takeoff; you look a bit cooked."

Glancing down at the deep red flesh on the tops of his hands, Kelso smirked.

"No, just spent a little too much time in the sun today," he said evenly as he looked back over at Gaines. "The United Nations authorized our settlement right after you left. I've been helping to coordinate things down on the surface the last couple of days."

"You might want to think about getting some sunscreen, sir," smirked Gaines, flinching slightly as Lefler threaded another stitch through her skin.

"I'll keep that in mind," replied Kelso, a long sigh escaping him as he mentally switched gears. "But right now I'm much more interested in the 'Code Blue' Colonel Runel included in his message to me."

"Would you like me to go over the short version, sir?" asked Gaines as she looked back over at him.

"The leaflet-length version will do for now," he replied simply, crossing his arms as he watched Lefler deftly tie off another stitch.

"We'd just inserted onto the surface and were placing the warhead per the mission plan," began Gaines, taking a deep breath as she looked down at the dust on her boots. "The POW's were being loaded out and the Russian Special-Ops team had gone into the admin building to check for any intel, and that's when an enemy transport crashed down in our area."

At that, Commander Kelso looked over to Colonel Runel.

"CAP engaged six enemy transports and three enemy stealth fighters soon after _Galactica_ inserted into orbit, sir," began Runel evenly. "I ordered all of our fighters to concentrate on taking out the stealth ships while the _Ikenga_ maneuvered into position to take out the transports; that's when we lost our three Vipers, including Major Culver."

"And one of those transports got past the _Ikenga_?" asked Kelso evenly.

"Wasn't for their lack of trying, sir," replied Runel, scratching a bit at the late-afternoon stubble forming on his chin. "Just a bit of bad luck that one managed to get through."

"So what happened after the transport got to the ground?" asked Kelso as he returned his attention to Gaines.

"Well, it downed a few of the Earth transports as it was falling, then smashed into a few of the empty encampment buildings near our position," sighed Gaines as she braved a glance down at the work Lefler was performing on her arm. "The Russian team was making their way over to check for any enemy survivors…and that's when they emerged from the wreckage."

"Cylons?" asked Kelso pointedly. "What the hell were Cylons doing aboard a Chig transport?"

As the question left his lips, Kelso took a deep breath and looked away, his mind reeling a bit.

"If the Cylons have formed some sort of alliance with the Chigs or worse still, the Silicates, this could get very ugly very quickly," muttered Runel as he continued to scratch at the stubble on his chin. "Battered as it is right now, I can't imagine Earth's fleet is prepared to take on the Cylons."

"Since we have no hard intel on just how many Basehips the Cylons used to hit the Colonies, this could get far worse than just 'ugly', Colonel," muttered Commander Kelso, gently shaking his head as he turned back around to face Runel. "With just one planet to hit, if the Cylons attack in force Earth doesn't stand much of a chance even with us here to help defend it."

For a few tense moments, silence held sway. Even Lefler seemed to pause for a moment as the full ramifications of a Cylon attack on Earth sank in.

"Frak," spat Kelso bitterly. "How much do the liaisons you have aboard know?"

"A few of their senior officers were helping coordinate operations in CIC when Captain Gaines' message came in; they know just about as much as we do, Commander," replied Runel evenly, slowly turning to look over at a clock on the wall as he scratched at the back of his head.. "In fact, most of them are scheduled to offload in the next few hours; I can't imagine it will take long for word to spread once they arrive back in their respective nations."

"So there's no chance of keeping a lid on this even if we wanted to," said Kelso, a touch of resignation in his voice.

"No, sir," replied Runel simply, shaking his head slightly as he looked back over at Kelso. "About the only way we'd be able to keep this quiet is to hold every last one of them aboard the _Galactica_, Commander."

"I doubt our new allies would take kindly to us holding their people hostage like that," offered Gaines, her tone somewhat sardonic.

As an uncomfortable silence once again settled over the scene, Major Lefler finished up with the final stitch on Gaines' arm, quickly switching over to a pair of thin-nosed scissors to tidy up the loose ends of a few of the other stitches.

"Okay, Captain," she sighed. "I'm pretty much done here. Just be sure to keep the wound clean and dry for the next couple of days, I'll get you a couple packets of antibiotic ointment, just be sure to put on a very thin amount and come back in a couple days for a wound check."

"Copy that, Doc," muttered Gaines a she hopped down from the bed.

As Lefler set about gathering together her instruments and the medical waste, Commander Kelso looked over at her.

"Well, Major Lefler, since you can't pretend you haven't been listening in this whole time I might as well ask; what do you think?" asked Kelso pointedly.

Somewhat surprised, Lefler looked back over at the Commander.

"You're asking _my_ opinion, sir?" asked Lefler, clearly unsure as to what she was expected to say.

"Right about now, your opinion is just as valid as anyone else's," replied Kelso, shrugging slightly.

Clearing her throat, Lefler slowly set the items in her hand back down on the procedure table.

"Well, sir, if you're asking my opinion, I'd say we really have no reason to try and keep this quiet from Earth even if we could," replied Lefler, her gaze drifting a bit as she spoke. "One of the first things they teach us in medical school is to work with what we know to be fact, not how we wish things to be; just because we don't like a diagnosis doesn't mean we can ignore the disease."

"So you think we should just tell them everything about what happened down on the surface?" asked Runel, a long, somewhat pensive sigh as he looked over at Lefler.

"Well, sir, it really doesn't make any sense to do otherwise," replied Lefler, shrugging a bit as she took in a deep breath. "By allowing us to begin settling, it can be argued that the governments of Earth are placing an incredible amount of trust in us; do we really want to risk harming that trust over something we pretty much know they're going to find out about anyway by appearing duplicitous?"

"Point taken," sighed Kelso as he slowly looked back over to Gaines. "Thank you, Major."

"Yes, sir," replied Lefler simply as she reached back over and gathered up the last of her instruments.

As Major Lefler stepped away to dispose of the procedure tray she'd been using, Captain Gaines looked back over at the still-ruminating Commander Kelso and Colonel Runel.

"If we tell them everything we know, how do you think the United Nations will react?" asked Runel as he glanced over at the Commander.

"Well, we already gave them a pretty extensive dossier on the Cylons when we submitted our asylum request," sighed Kelso as he looked down absently at the reddened skin on the tops of his hands. "And no matter how you look at it, Lefler's right; ever since we got the go-ahead to start letting our people make their way to the surface, they've had workers running at a fever pitch putting up shelters for our people. Still, we should anticipate this ruffling more than a few feathers once we tell the United Nations."

Pausing, Commander Kelso looked back up at Gaines and Runel.

"Well, for what it's worth, Commander, I think Lefler's right," interjected Runel evenly. "Just because we don't like it doesn't mean we can ignore what we've learned. If we're honest with ourselves about this, none of us ever really expected the Cylons to simply give up searching for us; deep down we've known they were still a threat lying just beyond the horizon."

"I suppose we'll just have to hope that with us here Earth has a chance at fighting them off," said Commander Kelso, his tone betraying a sense that he was less confident about his statement then his words would seem to imply.

As she watched Commander Kelso and Colonel Runel brood over whatever nightmarish scenarios were playing through their minds regarding a Cylon attack on Earth, Captain Gaines' mind continued to churn over the events on the surface, most especially the conversation she'd had with the smashed mechanical atrocity she'd found still functioning after the gunship strike.

"Sir," sighed Gaines, hesitating, fidgeting a bit as she continued to play over the exchange in her mind, a nagging uncertainty nipping at her thoughts. "There's…something else I need to tell you about the encounter we had on the surface."

"What is it, Captain?" asked Kelso evenly as he looked back over at her, easily picking up on her palpable hesitation.

"Well, sir, I'm not entirely certain how to explain this," began Gaines, pausing as she turned and looked the Commander directly in the eye, clearly struggling to organize her thoughts. "Crazy as it might sound, I'm not convinced the _things_ we engaged on the surface were actually Cylons."

"That's not what you said in your transmission, Captain," said Runel, his expression contorting a bit in mild annoyance as he looked over at her. "You said, clear as day over the wireless, that you had _Cylon Centurions_ on the surface."

"I know what I said, sir," countered Gaines, her tone a bit indignant, as much because of her own qualms over the matter as anything. "And believe me, Colonel, when they first popped up out of the transport wreckage, that's honestly what I thought they were; large, metal, well-armored and ugly as sin…"

"But now you're not sure?" asked Kelso evenly.

"No, sir, I'm not."

"Why?"

"Well, first off, the 'things' on Kazbek were of a completely different design from the Cylons we engaged back on Sagitarron," replied Gaines evenly, her gaze a bit distant as she went over whatever was flashing through her memory. "The Cylons who hit us in Serenity Valley were of a sleeker design, much faster and harder to take down than the beings on Kazbek."

"Maybe the things you encountered on Kazbek are simply another model of Cylon," offered Runel. "During the Cylon War, the enemy had almost a dozen different models; infantry, pilot, guardian…"

"I know sir," nodded Gaines, grimacing a bit as she continued to wrestle with trying to explain what in the end was simply a 'gut feeling'. "But that's not all; I spoke with one of them before we evac'd."

"I thought the gunship strike took care of them," interjected Runel, crossing his arms slightly. "Their BDA stated all the targets were destroyed."

"The gunships took them down, sir, no doubt about that, but at least one of them was still functional enough that it spoke to me before we pulled out."

"And just what did this 'thing' have to say?" asked Kelso as he continued to watch the uncertainty play across Gaines' expression.

"It said it was the shape of things to come, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Pearl Harbor<br>****Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaii**

With her first visit with the staff psychiatrists at Tripler Medical Center now complete, Captain Shane Vansen stepped outside and set out along the streets of Honolulu on little more than autopilot.

In truth, the appointment had been just about the only thing she had been ordered to accomplish today. Indeed, the impression Vansen was getting was that her superiors were very much uncertain about what they were going to do with the Kazbek survivors long-term; would they be retained in service, or would they ultimately be discharged for medical or psychological reasons?

For the moment, Vansen quite surprisingly found herself feeling profoundly ambiguous, even borderline apathetic about which of those options she actually preferred.

Much as she might try to deny it, the experiences of the last two years, the trials and sorrows she'd suffered, had left Shane Vansen once again wracked with the same level self-doubt she'd harbored before joining the Marines. In a very real sense, her mind was numbed and her thoughts somewhat disconnected. She couldn't shake the impression that fate had somehow cast her aside just long enough to call into question everything she had come to regard as inviolate about who she was or what she sought in life. In very simple terms, after everything that had transpired, did she really even _want_ to remain in the Marines?

She'd made the mistake of voicing those doubts when she'd spoken with her two sisters the day before yesterday. In retrospect, Shane figured she could forgive the vociferous adamance with which Anne and Monica had little more than demanded she get out; from their perspective, they'd been living the last several months under the impression that Shane was dead. Still, it was a decidedly jaded perspective from which Shane knew she'd be able to draw very little objective feedback on the matter.

Hell, the fact that she had been allowed to speak with her sisters at all so quickly after her return to Earth was a somewhat disorienting surprise in-and-of itself.

Like many of the other survivors who'd been rescued from Kazbek, Shane Vansen had wholly expected that for the sake of military secrecy she would find herself sequestered away at some isolated location upon her return to Earth, cut off from interaction with most every other person on the planet while the military jumped through hoops to advise family members and, perhaps more critically, for the shrinks to have a chance to sift their way through the psychological wreckage and detritus left in the wake of months of captivity and torment at the hands of the Silicates.

While there were a few particularly damaged individuals who were being held as inpatients at various facilities around the globe, most of the repatriated were being allowed an utterly surprising measure of freedom. General consensus of the psych-personnel seemed to be that allowing them a chance to interact with 'normal' society while receiving treatment would better allow them to wade back into their former lives.

While she wasn't about to argue about it openly, the whole approach the professionals were taking simply left Vansen with the impression that even after over two centuries of study and development in the arena of clinical psychology, the military shrinks were still making choices on how to best proceed very much by the seat of their pants.

If she looked at it objectively, she supposed the general confusion about what measures to take was understandable; no two people were alike emotionally, thus no two people coped with or reacted to the stresses of combat or imprisonment in exactly the same way. Moreover, it wasn't as though the military had cut them completely loose upon society at large either; all of the survivors, or at least the ones here on Oahu, were being given 'Cinderella-liberty', meaning they had to be back at the barracks by midnight or face possible charges under Article Eighty-Six. Nevertheless, the lack of the precise structure she had grown accustomed to left Vansen with the sense that she was somehow drifting like a boat on the open ocean without a rudder; if the professionals weren't entirely certain what to do with her, how the hell was she supposed to begin ferreting out what to do with herself?

Still, with her only assigned task for the day now done and her midnight deadline for getting back to the barracks many hours away, the tropical weather, balmy but decidedly beautiful and sunny, seemed to beckon to Vansen, imbuing her with a budding restlessness and wanderlust that came from having spent so many months within the confines of electrified wire and fencing.

Taking in a deep breath, savoring the scent of blooming flowers being carried on the breeze, Shane opted to essentially switch her mind off, a refreshing experience after having spent the better part of the last two hours letting a shrink peel away at the layers of her emotional minutiae. Then, with no other preamble but placing one foot in front of the other, Vansen set out along Jarrett White Road and resolved to do nothing more than let her feet more-or-less go wherever they will.

As her feet began thumping out a rhythmic cadence against the concrete, Vansen's mind continued to drift in a manner every bit as aimless as her current path.

Well, perhaps not so much aimless, more scattered and obliquely overwhelmed, and why shouldn't it be; in most every way, Shane's mind was grappling to process an incredible amount of information.

Having spent so many months isolated and imprisoned behind the wire, tormented and tortured by the Silicates, forced to toil away in the stifling mines below ground, Vansen had absorbed the news with each new flood of arriving prisoners about how poorly the war had been going for the Earth forces with a sense of growing dread.

The fleet battered, entire airwings and garrisons shattered or nearing collapse…

IFOR forces in full retreat all along the front with little to no hope of stemming the tide of the enemy's resurgent advance…

Trapped behind the confines of the razor wire, it had seemed that the Chigs had been on the verge of utterly annihilating every last man, woman and child on Earth with Vansen and her fellow prisoners impotent to do anything else but watch helplessly from the confines of a Silicate torture camp.

And then, like a blindside right hook to the jaw, the already spiraling world seemed to take a disorientingly abrupt and wholly unpredictable turn. Rolling over her like a rapid drumbeat, the comparatively successful rescue of the Kazbek prisoners and their return to Earth had merely stimulated the sense that events had perhaps evolved far beyond Shane's ability to ever fully adapt to again.

The only thing that seemed to temper her shock over the rapidity of events these last days was the profound distress that was induced by the broader truth; the Silicates themselves were now the ones in control of the war, not the Chigs. Roundhammer had spooked the Chigs, spooked them so deeply that they had earnestly wanted out, but the damned AI's, so intent on again prosecuting their relentless reign of terror over their human creators, were now the ones keeping the bloodshed from coming to an end.

And what of the arrival of the Colonials?

Not so long ago, the very idea of human beings from a different world would have seemed as alien and far-fetched as human beings grown in artificial gestation tanks had been a few decades ago.

But in the practical, neigh a factual blink of an eye, she and the rest of the Kazbek survivors had been thrust bleary-eyed and stumbling back into a world where it was very much a reality; indeed, the only comfort she could really take from the whole situation was that the world as a whole had only had a scant few more weeks time to absorb the existence of the Colonials and was in fact still grappling to a degree with that fundamentally jarring new reality.

No small wonder that the survivors of Kazbek felt every bit and more unnerved by the chaotic change of events. Much like Alice when she tumbled down the rabbit hole, Vansen felt as though she'd fallen out of one world, one that was terrifying but known, and landed in another where even the familiar had a new aura of oddity to it.

But even as Vansen's mind compartmentalized away for the moment the profound implications of that new world, of flesh and blood people from a planet, no, _planets_, far removed from Earth, she couldn't help the vengeful little voice rattling around in the back of her head that savored the idea of the Silicates being slaughtered en masse under the guns of the formidably powerful fleet that had stumbled out of the depths of space.

As the myriad of cars continued to drive past her along the road, the occupants paying her little to no attention; well, really, why would they, per orders she was dressed in civilian attire as she made her way along the sidewalk; Shane couldn't help but ponder the seeming incongruity of people going about the mundane trivialities of their daily lives as if utterly oblivious to the overwhelming changes taking place around them.

Before long, Vansen came to the intersection with Salt Lake Boulevard and somewhat arbitrarily turned left, knowing that if nothing else directing her ambling path that way would eventually lead her back towards Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, her temporary duty station until the Marine Corps had finally determined exactly what it was they were going to do with her.

As she soaked in the rays of sunshine sparkling across the emerald-green vegetation around her, Vansen's mind continued its game of psychological ping-pong, bouncing to-and-fro between the intellectual extremes she found herself surrounded by and immersed in; humans from another world, a war with aliens and artificial life, a woman nearby pushing a stroller occupied only by some meager groceries, the melodic song of birds echoing out amid the drone of vehicle traffic, the rainbow maelstrom of tropical flora and fauna defying the stark gray shades of the asphalt, the entire world facing the grim possibility of annihilation even as a cop issued a speeding ticket to a protesting motorist on the side of the road.

"There's too much confusion," muttered Vansen, shaking her head slightly as she looked away from the spectacle of the overly-dramatic woman motorist vocally fretting about how the ticket would 'catastrophically' impact her insurance rates. "People _really_ need to get their priorities straight."

And that was when the thought truly hit her.

Was it always like this with people? Was it more common than she would have guessed for the masses to continue on with their lives as-is uninterrupted even as larger events seemed to be spiraling or careening utterly out of control? Was there, in the end, always an unrelenting undercurrent of normalcy that prevailed even amid the frothy tides and upheavals created by turning points in history?

"History is replete with turning points," she muttered, smirking a bit as she recalled the time one of her college history professors had uttered those words during a lecture.

As she continued to make her way past the residential communities lining the road, Vansen tried to take in the beauty of the plants, the flowers, the simple but comforting joy of watching kids playing in their yards, but found it increasingly hard to ignore the fatigue taking hold over her, each step taking just a little more effort than the last, certainly much more effort than would have been the case before she'd found herself in a Silicate prison camp.

Upon their return, the docs had made it very clear to the survivors that they were to refrain from anything particularly strenuous until their bodies had had more time to recuperate from the malnutrition and muscular atrophy they'd suffered during their time in the camp; exercise of most any kind, even sex, had been more-or-less prohibited.

But at that moment, with what was to her mind still a maddeningly disproportionate amount fatigue nipping at her senses, the hardened Marine side of Vansen's personality kicked in, an unrelentingly stubborn unwillingness to concede that the few short miles she had come had in fact tapped her out.

Taking in a deep, resolute breath, Vansen looked up and caught the outline of what she recognized as Aloha Stadium in front of her and focused her mind in on reaching it as being her goal. As she willed her feet to continue their march along the pavement, Vansen focused her attention on the scaffolding surrounding the structure, noted the workmen as they carried out what she presumed was a very extensive renovation of the aged structure, all of her observations little more than an exercise in mind over matter; distract the mind, be distracted from the weakness and pain in the body.

Before long, her throbbing leg muscles had succeeded in carrying her close enough to the activity around the old stadium that she could hear the belching engines of the construction vehicles milling around the base of the structure, caught the shouts of the myriad of workers as they were carried by the light breeze blowing through the area.

But in spite of the flurry of activity taking place around the stadium exterior, as she looked up Vansen found that she was transfixed by, of all things, the simple chain-link fence around the perimeter of the construction site.

It was curious, as one part of her rational mind screamed out that there was nothing threatening or even particularly special about the fence in front of her, another part of her, something more primal, far more reactionary and visceral seemed to recoil a bit from it, the sight of the fence instilling a latent but powerful dread that shivered its way up her spine.

Forcing herself to look away from the fence surrounding the construction site, Vansen closed her eyes, took in a deep, steadying breath, then focused in on flexing and stretching the throbbing ache from her legs. As she then attempted to stretch the dull ache from her back, Vansen looked at the area around her and caught sight of Kamehameha Highway nearby.

With her body beginning to send her a continuous stream of very clear signals that it would not be able to press on for too much longer, Vansen decided it was likely a prudent moment for her to begin making her way back to base. After bending forward to give her legs one good, final stretch, her shapely form attracting some very unwelcome attention from a small cluster of construction workers nearby, Vansen started off again as she tried to ignore both the curious anxiety she still felt about the nearby fence as well as the bevy of crude catcalls being directed at her, those at least allowing her the distraction of momentarily relishing the idea of the physical damage she might have been able to inflict upon the leering assholes had she still been at her fighting prime.

Although she had very quickly been able to leave the oddly disconcerting fence and hooting cluster of lecherous morons behind her, Vansen nevertheless found herself continuing to contend with a mounting level of exhaustion as she made her way along the Kamehameha Highway. With her head beginning to swim a bit, a slight dizziness and nausea swirling around in her consciousness, Vansen looked up and caught sight of the sign for Makalapa Park. With her breathing becoming nearly as heavy as her feet felt, Vansen decided to heed the maxim of discretion being the better part of valor and find a place to rest for a while before she found herself so utterly tapped that she wouldn't be able make it back to base at all.

As she began making her way out onto the park's empty sports field, Vansen paused as the scent of the freshly mowed grass enveloped her. Taking a few steps over towards a very well-weathered set of bleachers, Vansen slowly settled down onto the bottom bench, used her feet to tug off her shoes, then pulled off her socks. Stuffing her socks into her shoes for safekeeping, Vansen set her bare feet down onto the grass, a few of the clipped blades slipping up in between her wiggling toes, tickling them slightly. Taking a deep breath, Vansen then stood back up, letting out a light gasp when a muscle in her thigh cramped up. After a few moments of rubbing her hands against the deep muscle to work out the knot, Vansen set off across the grass, intent on savoring the feel of it against her bare feet in spite of the slight limp she was now burdened with.

As she slowly meandered across the field, her leisurely pace and the softer give of the natural ground beneath her bare feet somewhat invigorating on a visceral level, Vansen decided it would be nice to devote at least a few minutes of her decidedly empty schedule to simply resting beneath the shade of the small thicket of trees lining the park.

But as she continued to make her way closer to the inviting shade beneath the trees, Vansen looked up and caught sight of a set of black tripod towers jutting skyward behind the set of small buildings in front of her. Smirking slightly as she glanced down at her bare toes framed in grass, Vansen mused over how being a Marine brat, and no doubt no small measure of influence from her rabid historian former CO Colonel T.C. McQueen, let her mind immediately identify just what those jutting masts were.

As her feet left the cool grass and once again made contact with the gravelly asphalt of a less-than-immaculately maintained parking lot, Vansen momentarily pondered putting her shoes back on, but ultimately decided that even the asphalt felt somehow comforting under her bare feet.

After making her way across the relatively vacant parking lot, Vansen once again found her feet meeting the pleasurable coolness of grass as she began making her way blithely past the various static displays and small stone markers arrayed around the small buildings in the area, most of them monuments to a war now over a hundred and twenty years silent.

To one side sat an old ocean torpedo…

Nearby were a couple of weathered mockups of submarine-borne ballistic missiles that at one time had represented the pinnacle of destructive power and technology…

All around her, Vansen casually noted the relics of wars and almost-wars that had long ago been relegated to the cold pages of history.

For a moment, Vansen's mind seemed to wander away onto another tangent; with the battlefields of this war scattered across far-flung worlds most would never see, how would generations to come honor and remember the fallen in this war?

For all the concern they seemed to be giving it in their daily lives now, would they even bother to try?

With that somewhat sobering thought rattling about in the back of her mind, Vansen noted somewhat bitterly just how very few other people were actually visiting this set of memorials, indeed barely a dozen or so others were anywhere in sight, the weather-beaten exhibits seemingly all the more somber for the lack of attention they were being given.

With a heavy sigh, Vansen continued on across the placid commons nestled behind the displays and worn placards, the tall palm trees around the area standing like sentinels along the concrete pathway weaving its way through the park, before long her eyes once again settling on the twin black masts and the ancient, thought still visually majestic vessel they were attached to out in the harbor.

Well into her seventh decade now as a floating museum, the old Battleship _Missouri_ rested at her permanent mooring off the centrally located Ford Island. Though her guns had fallen silent generations ago, there was still a haunting beauty and air of potency that hung around the vessel, an aura of power and purpose that still clung to her, the sweeping lines of her gray steel even now seeming to scream out that she longed to plow her bow through the rolling waves of an open sea.

As she finally reached the edge of the vast courtyard, truly being able to go no further without finding herself treading water in the heavily trafficked East Loch of Pearl Harbor, Shane Vansen continued to look out at the imposing vision that was the _Missouri_.

But as visually commanding as the old seagoing battleship was, it didn't take long before Vansen's eyes were drawn to the sweeping lines of the object that rested just off the _Missouri_'s bow. With its shimmering white exterior glistening in the waning sunlight, the _Arizona_ Memorial sat like a stately carved cathedral, a holy sanctuary devoted to the memory of men who awoke one Sunday morning expecting peace, but quickly found themselves engulfed by the turbulent seas of war.

Slowly settling down onto the grass, Vansen drew her knees up to her chest as she watched the brilliant orange hues of the setting sun frame the twin memorials to the soul-shattering horrors and sacrifices of war, pondered every curve, every meaning, both subtle and profound, behind their placement in relation to one another.

Beneath the waves, the rusted remains of the _Arizona_ sat in the silt and mud she had begun to settle into a hundred and twenty-four years ago, the gleaming memorial built in her honor a place of serenity and reflection over the disastrous loss of life and the end of what turned out to be an utterly impractical national naiveté.

Across from her, resting bow to bow with _Arizona_'s crumbling remains, the _Missouri_, her teak decks the site where the adversary that had sent her forerunner and kindred sister into mud of this harbor had surrendered, now an irrepressible sentry standing guard over what had become in one cataclysmic moment a tomb for over a thousand men.

And in between the two bows, separating these sisters that represented the beginning and the end of war were the murky, rolling waters that themselves seemed to act as a symbolic microcosm of the events that had transpired between those two events.

In those waters, men had suffered incalculable pain and anguish.

In those waters, bleeding, broken men had choked in their last desperate breath and died.

In those waters, an unquenchable inferno had raged back and forth with the ebb and flow of an oily tide.

In those waters, men had been mercilessly cast into a shadowy, blinding maelstrom of silt, oil, smoke, blood and hell, left to thrash and claw their way towards uncertain survival as bullets and searing shrapnel rained down around them, the shattered bodies of their buddies and their brothers littering the area around them.

So much suffering had taken place in the waters between those two bows.

But there had also been so many acts of indomitable perseverance and willful, primal determination.

"History is replete with turning points," muttered Vansen as she looked out at the dual symbols of and witnesses to two such world-changing moments.

And in that moment, Vansen felt a sense of clarity and resolve take hold in her.

She had witnessed the horrific beginning of this current war.

She had suffered through and survived some of its darkest hours, its most harrowing events.

From those experiences, Shane Vansen knew on the most base and visceral level that Earth's defeat meant more than political humiliation; it meant annihilation of the human race itself. If that happened, no memorials would ever matter for there would be no one left to remember their meaning.

And so it was that in that moment, Shane Vansen made her decision; by her blood, by her suffering, she had damned well earned the sacred right to see this war through to its end.

* * *

><p>"You have to admit that I'm right about one thing," she muttered, her sensual lips curling in a grin as her companion stepped up beside her. "There is something very intriguing about her."<p>

"You speak as though we have never encountered her lot before," he replied, the scoff evident in his accented tone as he slowly pulled his sunglasses from his overcoat breast pocket and methodically slid them into place over his eyes. "You know as well as I do that her façade of rough and tumble military ferocity merely encapsulates what is, in all actuality, a very vulnerable and broken person."

Rolling her eyes slightly at her companion's seeming indifference, the woman took a few more tentative steps across the grass, her shapely legs carrying her with an ethereal grace, almost as though she were not so much walking as she was floating about on a cloud.

"There's so much conflict within her," the woman continued as she moved around to look at Vansen's contemplative face. "She has such an unrelenting need to be loved, and yet feels such potent terror over the possibility of loss that she resists letting others in."

"Like I said; broken," reiterated the man nonchalantly as he looked out over the bustling activity in the harbor. "What is it with these people; why do they always feel compelled to be so busy?"

"Not all of them have had an experience that would give them reason to reflect on God's love," replied the woman as she slowly knelt down unseen beside Vansen, slowly reaching out towards her as if wanting to gently stroke the emotionally wounded woman's face.

"And you really think 'God's love' is what is on her mind right now, do you?" smirked the man, gently shaking his head as he looked over towards his companion. "The only thought on her mind is revenge; a simple, sordid settling of scores for the murder of her parents by artificial lifeforms."

As his companion looked back over at him, no small amount of simmering frustration in her eyes over the man's seemingly cavalier callousness, his grin slowly spread even wider across his lips.

"Come to think of it, there is a splendid bit of irony in this; she harbors such thoughts while completely unaware that like everyone else born on this planet she has a genetic pedigree that includes artificially-derived Cylon DNA," smiled the man, his expression one of unabashed smugness. "How utterly delightful; I wonder what she'd make of that…perhaps we should tell her."

"You know it is not the right time nor is it our place," began the woman fervently, instantly standing back up to her full, evocatively sultry height as she took a few tentative steps towards her companion. "We are as much a part of God's plan as anyone else, and we are bound…"

"Again with 'God's' plan, come now my dear, you really must develop your repertoire," bemoaned the man, scoffing a bit as he looked over into his somewhat indignant companion's eyes. "And as charming as you are, let me assure you that I have no need for you to remind me of my place."

Looking into his haughtily smug expression for a moment, the woman slowly regained her composure as she looked back over at Vansen, the woman at last standing back up, moaning a bit as she stretched the stiffness from her legs, the sun continuing to drop below the horizon casting a long shadow behind her.

"You know, I almost pity them," the man said, gently cross his arms as he watched Vansen slowly make her way over to a bench in order to slip back on her socks and shoes. "Even now, with all the pieces falling into place, they still have no idea what awaits them back out there."

"You pity them?" asked the woman, her eyes never leaving Vansen as she finally began making her way off along the concrete pathway, Shane's gait somewhat off due to the lingering stiffness in her legs.

"I said almost, my dear, almost," corrected the man, his smirk once again in full form as he slowly slid his arm in around the woman's waist and began steering her back off in the opposite direction. "But you know as well as I do, if they are to finally break the cycle, the trials and suffering yet to come _is_ what must be."

* * *

><p><strong>General Staff Building<br>****Arbat District  
><strong>**Moscow, Russian Federation**

With the last of the stubborn winter snows having melted away a couple weeks ago, Moscow was beginning to enter the humid throes of what promised to be a beautiful summer season. Outside along Znamenka Street, the dazzling green hues of the trees danced amid the shimmering rays of sunshine that had broken through the early morning drizzle. With the melodic singing of birds punctuated by the sounds of people and traffic moving about outside, the Arbat District of Moscow was very much alive with a level activity befitting one of the largest cities in the world.

But as _Generál Ármii_ Leonid Pugachyov, Supreme Commander of United Nations International Forces took in a deep breath and looked out along the polished antique table at the other members of the Allied Combined Chiefs of Staff, his was the somber countenance of a man burdened by knowledge those making their way by outside would scarcely be able to fathom, a man upon whose shoulders the very fate of every man, woman and child in the entire world rested.

"On behalf of every person in the room, Commander Kelso, let me just say that we appreciate your candor in this matter," began Pugachyov evenly, his lips curling a bit as he looked out across the immaculately polished table to the Colonial Commander. "That you and your government have been so forthcoming about the information you have, however trivial it might seem, is most decidedly refreshing."

"I'm sure you would agree, sir, that it serves none of our interests to withhold any amount of information," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he looked around at the dazzling display of shimmering metal insignia and colored ribbons arrayed around him, not for the first time feeling most decidedly outranked amongst those who were now ostensibly his peers.

"Nevertheless, you and President Bess felt it necessary to turn over all the pertinent information regarding this possible contact with Cylons on Kazbek even though it could have led to the ouster of your people even as they begin the process of settlement," continued Pugachyov as he casually motioned around at the other officers arrayed around the table. "Such a decision takes no small amount of personal courage, and I think I can safely speak for the others here as well when I say it has helped cement our personal respect for you and your people."

"Thank you, sir," replied Kelso, nodding his head slightly even as he met Pugachyov's piercing blue eyes. "Nevertheless, I do hope we are wrong about this; a Cylon attack right now would be..."

"A disaster only equaled by the destruction of your own homeworlds?" interjected Pugachyov solemnly.

Taking in a deep breath, Kelso merely nodded.

"With our fleet in the state that it's in, I would hardly attempt to argue with such an assessment," muttered Pugachyov as he pulled a thick folder out from the valise sitting beside his chair. "Fortunately, I am able to offer this one measure of solace; the beings encountered by your team and ours on the surface of Kazbek were definitely _not_ your Cylons."

As all of the assembled officers, Commander Kelso included, leaned in expectantly over the table, Pugachyov opened the folder, the senior-most officer of the United Nations International Forces immediately passing out several small packets to each of the men and women arrayed around the table.

"In spite of the regrettable losses we sustained during the extraction of the prisoners, as we'd hoped, the Silicate hard drives retrieved by the Spetznaz team has begun to yield a veritable wealth of information," began Pugachyov as the officers around him began leafing through the packets they'd been given. "Now keep in mind, this is merely a preliminary report; the digital intelligence teams are still having some difficulty breaking through some of the higher level encryption protocols, it could still be weeks or even months before we have everything. But as you can see, what they _have_ managed to unearth thus far is still fairly disturbing."

As he began looking over the information in the packet, thankfully one that had been specifically translated for him to review, Commander Kelso couldn't help feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut.

"The Silicates have begun upgrading themselves," muttered Kelso evenly, shaking his head slightly in disbelief as he continued down the list of line-items in the report.

"In truth, this was something we should have had the wisdom to anticipate long before now," continued Pugachyov, intently watching the faces of the officers around him as they absorbed the content of the report. "Silicate bodies were never designed to withstand the rigors of prolonged or sustained combat, a shortcoming it is clear they now mean to overcome."

"Jesus, are these numbers accurate?" asked General Oliver Ranford, his voice barely a whisper as he ran his finger along the page he was reading.

"Best as we can tell from the information, yes," replied Pugachyov soberly. "The units encountered on the surface of Kazbek were merely the first of many we should expect to encounter from now on. In fact, if the _Ikenga_ had not been able to destroy those other transports in orbit, our forces on the surface would have been facing over one-hundred and eighty of those new units, not merely a dozen."

"Thank God they never made it down to the surface; with all those unarmed prisoners, the casualties could have been staggering, even with the gunships on station," muttered Air Chief Marshal Diane Howe of the Royal Air Force, her tone full of dismay.

"This report also says these new bodies are being powered by some of the Sewell fuel mined from Kazbek," grimaced French _Général d'armée_ Laurent Fournier as he glanced up from the pages in front of him. "Bastards will be able to operate for years before they need to even think about recharging."

"How quickly are they proceeding with their upgrades?" asked Ranford as he looked over at Pugachyov.

"The intel makes it clear that the Silicates are well into full production at this point," sighed Pugachyov, casually leafing through the copy resting before him. "Estimates are that by the end of the month they could have in excess of a quarter million of these new 'hyper-alloy combat chassis' as they call them ready for battlefield deployment."

"If they maintain that rate, they'll have in excess of two million by the time your fleet is ready to retake the offensive," muttered Kelso, shaking his head at the staggering calculations running through his mind.

"With that many units at their disposal, any ground operations we undertake will turn into an unimaginable meat grinder," noted General Ranford bitterly as his eyes continued to scan over the pages before him. "Even with full combined arms support, we could lose five or six of our own people for every one of these things we manage to uproot from their defensive positions."

"You're talking upwards of twelve million casualties, General Ranford," muttered Air Chief Marshal Howe, her voice barely more than a somber whisper as the grave number, and the untold suffering it meant, sunk in.

"But this simply doesn't make any sense," interjected _Kong Jun Shang Jiang_ Liang Ehuang quizzically as she looked up from the report. "When the Silicates escaped into deep space at the end of the AI War, there were only a few hundred of them left; how are they able to program this many units?"

"They're androids, General Liang, walking PC's," smirked General Ranford, huffing slightly as he looked across to his Chinese counterpart. "They're probably just cloning their own software for the other units; somehow I doubt they're very worried about Silicatronics' lawyers coming after them for copyright infringement."

"What's this item here about downloading?" interjected _Général _Fournier, his brow furrowing a bit as he looked up from the report.

"That caught my eye as well," sighed Pugachyov as he leaned back in his plush chair. "As you already know, all Silicates are more-or-less linked with one another via their wireless modems, allowing them to share information, a sort of digital collective memory."

"Hard to forget," sighed Ranford as he too leaned back in his seat. "That's how the 'Take-A-Chance' virus was able to spread globally to almost every Silicate in the first place."

"But, that collective memory is finite," interjected _Général _Fournier. "There are limits to how much data can be shared amongst them without overloading their wireless data network, but beyond that, range is also a significant limiting factor."

"Well it seems that the Silicates have found a way to overcome those two deficiencies," replied Pugachyov as he motioned over at the stack of pages before him. "These new Silicate bodies have been linked into some form of new, massive server hub that allows their entire program to be uploaded in the event their body is damaged or destroyed; after that, they simply load that saved program back into a new body. Furthermore, it would seem these new data-burst transmission protocols they have put into place could allow that data to be sent an extraordinary amount of distance before the signal starts to degrade, even with localized jamming."

"This is all beginning to make my head hurt," sighed Howe as she reached up and began massaging the bridge of her nose. "Are you suggesting that even if we kill one, we could just end up fighting that same program again in a new body later?"

"Precisely," nodded Pugchyov.

"Except that with its memories intact from the first go-round, it might be a harder kill the second time around," muttered Ranford, smirking grimly as he looked at the faces assembled around the table. "Death will just be another learning experience for them now; each time we shoot one of them up, it will just download and be wiser and more cunning at the next encounter."

"Sir, if I may, I feel I need to point out something," muttered Kelso, slowly looking up from his copy of the report, his brow deeply furrowed in thought.

"Yes, what is it, Commander?" asked Pugachyov as he and the other officers in the room looked over at Kelso.

"Although this program to build new bodies is extensive, it still doesn't account for sheer amount of material the Silicates have been diverting away from Chig space over the last several months," began Commander Kelso evenly as he let the pages of his report fall closed. "There's another piece to this puzzle we're all missing, a pretty substantial piece."

"And might I ask just how it is that you are aware of how much material the Silicates have been hoarding away?" asked Pugachyov evenly as he slowly leaned forward onto the table, his eyes already beginning to settle upon General Oliver Ranford even before Kelso had a chance to respond

"I authorized the translation of a copy of the intelligence report we received a couple weeks ago on the matter," sighed Ranford evenly as he looked back over at Pugachyov. "At the time, I felt it necessary to let the Commander know more fully what we were up against in order to secure Colonial assistance for the mission to Kazbek."

Taking a deep breath, Pugachyov's eyes never left Ranford.

"That information was classified compartmentalized at the highest level, General Ranford," began Pugachyov, pausing to let out a long sigh. "There are some who might view your decision to release that information without official sanction to do so as tantamount to treason."

"Yes, sir, I realize that," replied Ranford evenly.

"Then can I presume you are also willing to accept the full consequences of your choice?" asked Pugachyov as he continued to eye Ranford intently.

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Very well," huffed Pugachyov as he motioned for Ranford to hold out his hand.

As Ranford slowly held his hand out over the polished surface of the table, Pugachyov picked up his packet of pages and slapped it down onto the top of Ranford's extended hand.

"Consider that your official rebuke, Oliver," smiled Pugachyov as he let his packet fall back down onto the table. "Don't let it happen again."

"Aye, sir," snorted Ranford, grinning slightly as he settled back into his chair.

As the collection of brass around the table chuckled slightly at the exchange, Pugachyov once again looked out into the faces assembled around the table.

"Unofficially, however, I imagine I would have done the same thing," continued Pugachyov. "Without Colonial assistance, there never would have been a mission to Kazbek in the first place, and without a mission to Kazbek, we would not have had an opportunity to learn what we now know."

"Still, Commander Kelso is right," interjected _Kong Jun Shang Jiang_ Liang as she returned her attention to the report in her hands. "While the body upgrades are a significant program for the Silicates to undertake, it by no means accounts for the sheer amount of materials they've been removing from Chig construction programs."

"Well, Commander, since you are the one who pointed this fact out, do you have a theory as to what else our enemy may be planning?" asked General Pugachyov as he looked over at Kelso.

Taking a breath, Kelso glanced back over the figures on the pages, then looked back around at the faces of the senior Earth military officers arrayed around the table.

"Infantry forces are one thing, but they don't win a war on their own, especially not an interstellar war spread across numerous worlds," began Commander Kelso evenly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say the Silicates are likely building a fleet of their own, one independent of the Chig military."

"Are you suggesting they merely seized control of the Chigs as a stop-gap while they worked to bring their own hardware into play?" asked _Général _Fournier, his tone indicating he was more than a touch dismayed by the possibility.

"Well as General Ranford pointed out to me when he showed me the intelligence report, the Silicates sent the Chigs out after your forces with almost suicidal veracity," continued Kelso. "If their ultimate goal is to hit Earth, they should have exercised more caution and planning with the assets the Chigs had in hand, but they didn't. The only conclusion I can draw from that is that the Silicates don't really foresee the Chigs playing much of a role in their endgame, except perhaps that of supplemental cannon-fodder."

"I doubt you will find many people here on Earth shedding many tears over that turn of events," muttered _Général _Fournier sardonically. "In fact I dare say there might be a good number who feel it is merely the Chigs' just reward for having allied with the Silicates in the first place."

"Nevertheless the question stands; what could the Silicates have in store for us that they feel the Chigs and their technology is so completely expendable?" asked General Ranford flatly as he looked around into the eyes of his counterparts around the table.

With that, a pensive silence settled in over the assembled officers around the table, one that was broken only by the occasional sounds of urban life taking place just outside the closed windows. As a few of the senior officers looked back down at the packets before them, their expressions clearly wanting for some momentary inspiration to leap out at them from the pages, Commander Kelso felt as though he had at least one idea.

Question was how the hell could he broach it with the individuals arrayed around him?

Finally deciding that perhaps trite subtlety was sufficient, Commander Kelso made a very deliberate effort of clearing his throat, his action immediately drawing the attention of the officers around the table as he'd intended.

"Yes, Commander?" smirked Pugachyov, his tone indicating he'd picked up on just how blatant an attempt at getting their collective attention the Commander's throat-clearing had been,

"Well, sir, I might have an idea," began Kelso evenly, his tone subtly hesitant as he looked out at the officers looking at him. "But, before I say what it is, I have to ask that you all hear me out, because frankly, you might not like it."

* * *

><p><strong>Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System<strong>

Making a very deliberate attempt to avoid meeting the decidedly disconcerting gaze of the artificial beings seated before him, the Supreme Military Leader slowly bowed down.

"You may speak."

"We have completed our analysis of the enemy raid on Kazbek," began the Supreme Leader, his gaze never leaving the floor of the chamber as he spoke. "Based upon the information, it is clear that there is very little that could have been done to prevent the enemy from penetrating our territory."

"Do you have any explanation as to why your forces were not able to inflict more damage before they were destroyed?" asked Cain Six-Oh-Seven dispassionately as he slowly flexed the fingers of his new hand, the sound of the exposed metal fingers clicking against one another echoing a bit through the chamber.

"The enemy was able to damage a significant portion of the orbital defense network and had established significant aerospace superiority by the time our scheduled convoy reached the planet," replied the Supreme Leader, his respiratory membranes quivering a bit at the distressing sound of the clicks. "It is also clear that the enemy has at least developed some rudimentary countermeasures to our stealth technology making complete evasion impossible."

"And what of the mining facilities?"

"All surface facilities at the main site were destroyed in the thermonuclear blast," continued the Supreme Leader, at last mustering enough fortitude to look up into the cold metallic faces of his de facto overlords. "There is a significant amount of radiation in the area…"

"Radiation does not concern us, the resumption of mining operations does," countered Cain Six-Oh-Seven flatly as he looked down at the Supreme Leader.

"With respect, resuming mining operations will be difficult," replied the Supreme Leader, cowed into looking away once more by the attention he was receiving. "We now no longer have a sufficient number of human prisoners in our possession to constitute an effective labor force."

"Then your people will need to supply sufficient 'volunteers' to provide the labor," said Cain Six-Oh-Seven coolly. "We will expect those volunteers to be ready for transfer to Kazbek within three days."

With his respiratory membranes trembling from the sheer amount of shocked and fearful agitation he felt, the Supreme Leader was utterly silent as he churned with the impotent rage he felt inside but dared not display.

"Is there a problem with fulfilling this request?" asked Cain Six-Oh-Seven, his bare metallic skull canting slightly as he looked over at the silent Supreme Leader.

"The atmospheric conditions on Kazbek will make it difficult for my people to operate effectively," replied the Supreme Leader, every cell in his body burning with the seething anger he felt inside. "The number of respiratory adapters we will need to furnish, especially for a labor force large enough to begin mining out a new site away from the radiation zone…"

"As we have already stated to you, radiation does not concern us; mining will resume in the shafts already in place."

His anger at last boiling over enough to shatter his composure, the Supreme Leader leapt to his feet.

"You cannot expect our people to conduct mining in the radiation zone; it will be a death sentence to anyone we send there!"

With the Supreme Leader's depthless black eyes burning with roiling defiance, he stood there, every muscle in his body taught even as he still, wisely, resisted the impulse to lunge at Cain Six-Oh-Seven.

Nevertheless, the outburst was a display of disobedience that Cain Six-Oh-Seven was not disposed to countenance. With the low hiss of high-pressure hydraulic actuators sounding out through the chamber, Cain Six-Oh-Seven slowly rose his new and imposing hyper-alloy form up from his chair and began moving towards the Supreme Leader.

With the dull thud of Cain Six-Oh-Seven's heavy metallic feet echoing out menacingly with each step forward, each footfall resonating like an ominous drumbeat, the Supreme Leader nevertheless stood firm.

Stepping up to the Supreme Leader, Cain Six-Oh-Seven said nothing before very quickly reaching up and slipping his metallic fingers in around the Supreme Leader's throat, clasping down just hard enough that the being's respiratory gills were closed off. With his fiery defiance giving way to a cascade of horror, the Supreme Leader instantly reached up with his own hands and struggled in vain to break free of Cain Six-Oh-Seven's crushing grip. Using the significantly more powerful hydraulic 'muscles' of his new arm, Cain Six-Oh-Seven slowly lifted the Supreme Leader from his feet as the being continued to writhe and thrash about in his grip.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear," began Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he slowly brought the Supreme Leader's pale face to within inches of his own, mercilessly savoring the clear animal panic he detected in the organic being's glassy black eyes. "You have no choice; if a hundred or a thousand or a million of your people perish mining that ore, it means nothing to us. All that matters is that you obey our directives."

With that, Cain Six-Oh-Seven tossed the Supreme Leader through the air, the being's body landing hard and tumbling off across the floor of the chamber.

As if to emphasize the menace that would be raised by any further disobedience, the other members of the Silicate council likewise rose from their seats and began spreading out towards the crumpled form of the Supreme Leader, the leaden staccato of their footfalls rumbling off the chamber walls.

With the ominous unspoken threat of their surrounding him striking home, the Supreme Leader little more than scurried out of the chamber, barely managing to clamber back to his feet even as his now-bruised gills vacillated violently from the effort he exerted in the act.

As the Supreme Leader darted out into the adjoining hall, the entryway to the chamber closed him off from view as Cain Six-Oh-Seven slowly turned back towards the other Silicates.

"The Colonials are proving themselves to be a greater threat than we anticipated," said Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three, 'her' synthesized voice now no different from any other upgraded Silicate. "Destroying them needs to be our first priority before we proceed any further."

"The formidability of their ships and weapons will make that problematic," began Cain Six-Oh-Seven as 'he' looked down at his new metallic hand, recalling the stream of sensory input he'd received from the tactile micro-sensor network in the appendage as he'd used it to choke the Supreme Leader. "Any direct assault or fleet action will require use of our allied assets, and those have already proven decidedly unequal to the task."

"Construction continues on our new capital ships and fighters; we could wait until sufficient numbers of these new assets are ready for deployment," offered Burke MR Oh-Eight-Nine.

"Strategically speaking, waiting might not be a wise decision," countered Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven. "If the Earth and Colonial forces continue to make joint raids targeting our raw material procurement, all production of new ships or fighters will simply cease for lack of resources."

"Since a direct assault has a low chance of success, our greatest probabilities lie with either ambush or sabotage," said Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he let his hand drop back to his side.

"Sabotage might be viable option against the ships the Colonials intend to turn over to Earth, but the greatest threat still lies with their warships," countered Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three. "So long as those assets remain, all our operations and outposts are subject to attack with little to no warning."

"Then we need to focus on drawing their combat assets into a situation and location of our choosing," continued Cain Six-Oh-Seven. "If we can bait them into coming to us, a massed ambush might be able to succeed."

"There is a possibility," began Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven. "One of our contacts on Earth has indicated that Aero-Tech CEO Michael Lane has been reviewing the files on Project UMO."

"Does our contact have any information about why he is investigating those files?" asked Cain Six-Oh-Seven.

"Inconclusive," replied Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven evenly. "However, a review of his records and psych profile indicates a highly duplicitous mind primarily motivated by greed and the acquisition of political influence."

"He might be searching for a way to use the information against us," interjected Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three. "If Aero-Tech turns that data over to the Colonials, it might further erode our ability to combat them."

"Has he released any of the information regarding Project UMO?" asked Cain Six-Oh-Seven.

"Negative," replied Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven flatly. "Whatever his purpose in researching those files, they have not been made public. Indeed, our contact indicates he has gone to extensive lengths to keep UMO compartmentalized."

"Which means that in light of his duplicitous nature, he is likely searching for some way to capitalize on the information for his own purposes," mulled Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he began pacing slightly, a decidedly human idiosyncrasy programmed into him that had yet to be purged. "Yes, this is something we might be able to utilize to our advantage."

"What do you suggest then?" asked Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three, the remnants of her own ingrained human female characteristics programming prompting her to stand with her hands on her hips.

"Speak with our contact," began Cain Six-Oh-Seven as he looked over to Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven. "Inquire about putting us in contact with CEO Michael Lane directly."

"By your command," replied Elroy EL Three-Eight-Seven, bowing slightly.

* * *

><p><strong>Residence of Michael Lane<br>****Queensridge Community  
><strong>**Las Vegas, Nevada**

As he stood rather unceremoniously dressed in nothing more than his bathrobe on the balcony attached to his bedroom, Lane forwent the formality of a crystal glass and took a deep swig of scotch directly from the bottle in his hand, the potent liquor burning a bit as it snaked its way down his throat.

With the distant sound of a police vehicle running with sirens blaring out in the night, Lane reached up and wiped the film of sweat from the summer heat away with the sleeve of his robe. As the siren continued to retreat away into the stifling night, Lane slowly raised the bottle in his hand to eye level, noting how little was left as he swirled it around a bit. Bringing the bottle back to his lips, Lane downed the last of the scotch and then hurled the bottle off into the night air, the resonating cadence of shattering glass echoing out a moment later.

But even as the last clatter of splintered glass skipping over concrete died out, Lane felt no measure of satisfaction over how his 'night off' had turned out.

When he'd left Aero-Tech corporate headquarters, pausing only long enough during his departure to make a midnight call to the human resource director in order to fire a random security officer he saw on the way out for no other reason than that he wanted to inflict a bit of misery in someone else's life to try and balance out the colossal stress he was feeling in his own, he'd arranged for one of his particularly talented 'courtesans' to meet him at his residence in order to take out some of his pent-up frustrations on her supple body.

But as the time came to take full advantage of her nubile body and toe-curling skills, the woman having obediently presented herself to him, her every nude curve the epitome of sensually enticing as she lay spread out across his silk sheets, Lane found to his internal horror that he was suffering from a truly mortifying amount of 'performance anxiety'.

Humiliated, he angrily rushed the giggling woman out of his residence, tossing his ubiquitous crystal glass with a shatter after her as she made a departing crack at his expense on her way out the front door.

Now, humiliated, frustrated, neigh enraged over the colossally disastrous turns these last weeks seemed to have taken, both professionally, and now personally, Lane looked up at the few twinkling stars that could be seen through the significant glare of the city lights and screamed; a deep, burning, furious but ultimately as equally impotent a scream towards the uncaring points of light high above in the sky.

With aggravation and disappointment still boiling in his veins, Lane turned and walked back into his bedroom, the sight of his empty bed catching his eye just long enough to once again stoke his embarrassment over his failure to perform. With the slightly crumpled silk sheets continuing to silently indict his masculinity, Lane stormed off across his bedroom, intent on finding another bottle of scotch with which to drown his seething humiliation.

As he reached the entryway, though, Lane heard the gentle chime of his cell phone ring out through the bedroom. At first he paused, weighing in his mind whether or not he even wanted to answer it.

Part of him recoiled at the possibility that it was his errant lady caller intent on rubbing a bit of salt in his wounded pride.

In the end, however, Lane relented and heeded the melodic call of his phone, making his way over to the nightstand where he'd left it.

Lifting the phone up front the nightstand, Lane felt his mild intoxication wane a bit as he noted the caller ID on the screen was blank; no name, no number.

With a touch of curious trepidation, Lane brought his thumb down on the touchscreen, accepting the call, then lifted the phone to his ear.

"Who is this?" asked Lane, his brow furrowing deeply as he reflexively glanced again at the screen and verified that it was indeed blank.

"_Who I am is not important, Mister Lane_," replied a voice Lane wholly did not recognize, an odd resonance in it that he guessed as being some form of electronic masking.

"Well, unless you want me to hang up, I suggest you tell me anyway," countered Lane flatly, his utterly crappy evening leaving him in no mood to play games.

"_Our mutual friend Dillinger was kind enough to arrange for me to speak with you_," replied the voice.

Lane felt himself sober up a bit from the shiver working its way up his spine at the mention of Dillinger's name.

"This is not a secure connection," muttered Lane evenly.

"_It is from our end_," replied the voice. "_We can speak freely_."

Pausing, Lane once again looked at the frustratingly blank caller ID, scoffing a bit as he lifted the phone back to his ear.

"Look asshole, as fun as this conversation is, if you have a point, you'd better make it quick because I am not in a mood for bullshit right now."

"_First let me ask why you are reviewing the files for Project UMO_?"

In an instant, Lane felt his mouth go dry.

"I don't know what you are talking about…" choked out Lane, his voice a bit hoarse from the instant lack of saliva.

"_There's no need to play ignorant on the issue, Mister Lane_," replied the voice flatly. "_I know you have the information, all I am asking is what you intend to do with it_?"

Pausing, Lane took in a slow, deep breath as he began pacing slightly.

"I'm not sure yet," he finally replied.

"_Do you intend to turn it over to the Colonials_?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

"_Your avoidance indicates you do not intend to_," said the voice, the tone, even through whatever electronic masking device they were using, detectably smug. "_And since you have no intention of turning it over to the Colonials, the only other explanation is that you intend to exploit the technology yourself_."

"That was already tried once," sighed Lane, pausing mid-step in his pacing. "The results weren't very successful."

"_That depends on how you define success, Mister Lane_," replied the voice somewhat cryptically. "_Still, with the presence of the Colonials, there really isn't much of use that can be gleaned from UMO; why investigate it at all_?"

"If there's nothing useful in UMO, why are you so concerned with how I use the information?"

"_Because, Mister Lane, I believe we might be able to come to an accommodation; simply put, if you are willing to help me with my problem, I would be willing to help you with yours_."

"And what exactly is my problem?" sighed Lane, his mildly-inebriated patience beginning to wear thin.

"_Your problem is that with Colonial assistance, this war will be brought to an end far sooner than would be ideal for Aero-Tech stock prices_," continued the voice. "_Furthermore, with the Colonials offering up their technology to numerous firms around the globe, but not yours, Aero-Tech is on the brink of not only suffering the loss of vast and lucrative military contracts, but also the likelihood that without access to the Colonial technology, your firm will not be able to compete effectively in the post-war civil sectors_."

"You think you have it all worked out, don't you?" muttered Lane, unwilling to openly concede that the scenario presented by the mystery voice was _exactly_ the one he was fretting over.

"_Question remains, Mister Lane, are you willing to come to accommodation that will benefit us both_?"

Pausing, Lane took in a deep breath.

"Alright, you have my attention; what exactly do you have in mind?"

"_I intend to destroy the Colonials_," replied the voice flatly.

"Pretty tall order," chuckled Lane, his tone somewhat derisive over the matter-of-fact way the mysterious caller had spoken. "What makes you think you can succeed where the entire Chig fleet has so far managed to fail?"

"_Because the Chig fleet doesn't control the UMO files, Mister Lane, and UMO is the key to the destruction of the Colonials_."


	14. Reshuffling the Deck

**Dolphin Island  
><strong>**In the Coral Sea  
><strong>**Approximately 100 Kilometers from the East Coast of Australia**

"Well for frak's sake, son, how the hell did you honestly expect them to react?" chuckled Adrian Kelso as he casually tossed the rock in his hand out into the rolling surf. "Did you really think the Combined Chiefs would simply leap for joy over the prospect of seeking an alliance with the Chigs against the Silicates?"

"Okay, maybe it was a bit naïve, but I didn't think they'd react as poorly as they did," replied Sean Kelso, letting out a long sigh as he too let loose with the rock in his own hand, watching as it was swallowed by the frothy crest of a wave. "I still keep hoping my translator was somehow malfunctioning, because if it wasn't, _Général _Fournier has one hell-of-a mouth on him."

"Sean, you have to keep in mind, Earth has been fighting this war for over two years now," sighed Adrian, his tone taking on that sage-like edge Sean had grown accustomed to hearing from the earliest days in his memory. "I know I don't really need to explain this to you, but I'm going to say it anyway so I know it's at the forefront of your mind; war changes people, and almost never for the better. Worse still, its effects can spread like a contagion; fear, hate, a thirst for vengeance, all the worst aspects of who we are can begin to compel us."

"Still, if the Silicates are now merely using the Chigs as cannon-fodder, they clearly have a vested interest in throwing off that yoke," countered Sean evenly. "Everything the Combined Chiefs has turned over to us indicates the Chigs have a capable military, even if diminished, they're just not very adept at non-linear thinking; they might not have the necessary know-how to organize a resistance movement on their own. If Earth were able to assist them in expelling the Silicates from Chig territory, it might go a long way towards not only ending this war, but they might in turn be able to help us avert whatever it is that the Silicates are up to out there."

"That may be the objective way to look at it, but once again, that doesn't necessarily mean the people of this planet are ready to accept it," replied Adrian, shrugging slightly as he sent another stone skipping out into the rolling waves. "From what they've told us, they weren't ready for a conflict of this scale. A lot of good people have died fighting to hold the Chigs back, families the world over have been torn apart; there is no way you can just wave your hand and make that kind of burning resentment go away, in fact, the more logic you try to use to dispel it, sometimes the deeper it digs in."

"Two million, Dad," muttered Sean, a long sigh escaping him as he began gently shaking his head.

"I beg your pardon?" muttered Adrian, his face contorting a bit as he glanced over at his son.

"By the time the Earth fleet is reconstituted enough to resume offensive operations, the Silicates could have over two million of these improved bodies entrenched on every key strategic planet in Chig space," continued Sean as he looked out towards the endless blue horizon. "Add that in with any other hardware they might be assembling out there, slather on a respectable reserve of whatever remaining strength their Chig surrogates still have left and even with our fleet as part of the spearhead, pushing back into enemy territory is going to be a brutal, bloody affair no matter how you cut it."

"That may be so, but you have to work with the facts as you know them, not as you wish them to be," countered Adrian evenly as he nudged Sean's shoulder, turned and began making his way off down along the beach. "And right now, you have to accept the fact that Earth might not be ready or even able to consider an alliance with the Chigs. I mean, think about, if the situation was reversed, would _we_ be willing to enter into an alliance with Cylons?"

"I suppose it would depend on the circumstances…," began Sean, glancing over just long enough to note the utterly incredulous look creeping across his father's face. "Okay, _no_, an alliance with the Cylons would be farfetched under just about _any_ circumstances."

"See, not so hard to understand their reluctance, now is it?" smirked Adrian as he looked back out along the stretch of beach. "Sometimes it just takes looking at things from a different perspective. Speaking of which…"

With that, Adrian motioned towards a cluster of exuberant children thrashing about gleefully in the surf up ahead. As their shouts and laughter echoed up along the shore amid the sounds of threshing water and rolling surf, an equally enamored cluster of adults, presumably their parents, were arrayed along the beach, every bit as caught up in the enjoyment as they watched their children savor being nothing more than children for the first time in months.

"They certainly look like they're having a good time," muttered Sean, his lips creasing a bit as he watched the kids boisterously flopping around in the surf.

"And what about you?" asked Adrian pointedly.

"What about me?"

"Have you taken any time to unwind a bit, enjoy our new home?"

"I've got a fleet to run, I don't have time to 'unwind'," sighed Sean, his tone sounding more resigned than he had intended.

"Shall I take a moment to point out how what you just said is utter bullshit or shall we just skip beyond that?" asked Adrian, his own tone taking on a sardonic edge as he nudged his son's shoulder. "You know damned well that I am the last person who would try to trivialize the scope and magnitude of your responsibilities; I know you have a lot resting on those shoulders. But, you also have to take a moment for yourself every once in a while, son. If you don't, you'll be on the fast-track to a complete burnout."

It was at the moment that a loud series of deep, guttural cries echoed out across the shimmering sand, instantly drawing the collective attention of everyone within earshot of the auditory assault.

Exploding out from behind the thicket of fronded trees and underbrush lining the shore, over four dozen figures charged out ferociously, their mouths wide with the energetic shouts erupting from their throats startling more than a few of the parents arrayed along the shore as the emerging bodies tore up the distance between the treeline and the lapping waves, each of the forms fumbling to shed bits of clothing nearly the entire way as they rushed headlong towards the sea.

With arms thrown wide and dog-tags jangling wildly around their necks, the group paused not for a moment, continuing on until they crashed headlong into the rolling waves en masse, each one exhibiting an animal energy and visceral excitement every bit as lively as the wide-eyed children gawking nearby had been displaying only a few moments before.

Within the span of just a few short seconds, the near shore became an utterly hilarious display of limbs and torsos being cast about in various and at times seemingly awkward states of obfuscation within the foamy tide kicked up by the frenetic movements of the men and women who'd just laid siege to this stretch of ocean, and from the expressions on their faces, felt as though they won an immeasurable victory as they flopped and wrestled about in the brine.

As Adrian stood there watching the mixed group of pilots and Marines thrashing about in the water, his eyes were alight with unadultered amusement, a hearty chuckle escaping him as these adults, these grown men and women who represented the two razor edges at the tip of the Colonial spear continued to little more than frolic about with the same lack of caring and unrestrained delight as the children who'd resumed their own antics nearby.

For his part, Commander Sean Kelso was a touch more reserved in his reaction, bowing his head slightly as he stifled his laughter lest he have absolutely no credibility should he be forced to rein in his warriors' over-the-top behavior. Looking back up along the clothes-strewn beach, he could for the moment at least comfort himself with the knowledge that though uniform shirts, jock-smocks, trousers, boots and socks lay with liberal abandon across the sand, the uninhibited enthusiasm had not extended so far beyond modesty that they had abandoned their underwear as well.

Shaking his head as some of his hardened combat professionals continued to wrestle and toss one another about in the rolling waves, Sean Kelso began making his way back up along the beach towards the trees. With Adrian following close behind, a fit of relentless chuckling still escaping him, the two of them pushed their way up through the treeline, leaving the scene of unrestrained exhilaration behind.

After a few moments of pushing through the lush underbrush, Adrian and Sean emerged out into the clearing that had been carved out of the tropical jungle, the long rows of shelters erected by the Earth military engineers that had descended upon the previously uninhabited island barely over a week ago now every bit as alive with frenetic activity as the beach behind them was with unrepentant gaiety.

When word had come from the United Nations that settlement was being allowed to go forward, President Bess and his administration had endeavored to put together a cohesive plan for moving the bulk of the refugee populace from the ships in orbit down to the surface. In that plan, it had been envisioned that it would take the better part of two weeks to organize the civilians into manageable groups in preparation for the move, long enough that the President had hoped to have some smattering of social infrastructure in place to meet them on the surface; a nascent police and fire department, medical services, a school, all the accoutrements of basic civilization.

What the President and his government had not anticipated was the profound public backlash that met this proposal.

As word spread that the majority of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies would have to remain crammed aboard the ships while these frankly common-sense measures were put into place, patience quickly wore dangerously thin and restlessness spread far and wide throughout the fleet, the people reacting quite poorly to the idea of delaying the offload for anything whatsoever. As the discontent began to teeter on the edge of outright civil revolt, exasperation eventually won the day.

So it was that under the weight of popular opinion, and the specter of having all remnants of order amongst the civilians in the fleet breaking down, that the well thought-out and common sense plan was thrown out the airlock in favor of what now had all the appearances of a chaotic land-grab.

With the civilian liners now bringing people down by the hundreds, the Colonial Fleet personnel hastily assigned to help shepherd the new arrivals were very nearly overwhelmed. With overstuffed clipboards in hand, they walked at the vanguard of several clusters of people, waving their arms and shouting, frankly the only methods at their disposal to try and make themselves heard and understood over the roiling mass of humanity making their way along the long rows of pre-fab shelters.

So it was that as Commander Sean Kelso's harried personnel endeavored to bring some semblance of order to the chaos, groups were almost haphazardly parceled out, little more than a wide, almost theatrical wave of the arms being their signal that any one particular shelter being passed was to be their new home. Thankfully, especially in light of the prevailing pandemonium of the situation as is, few protested, if only because the sheer number of shelters that had been set up provided a near-surplus of space; each family might not be getting a four-bedroom home with all the luxuries, but most were at least being allowed to occupy a single shelter as a family without the prospect of having to double-up with someone else.

Considering most of them had just spent the last several months contending with the sparse accommodations of former military vessels or cramped civilian passenger liners, Commander Sean Kelso felt more than a bit justified in his view that none of them really had any room to complain in the first place. Still, human nature being what it was some inevitably did.

"I still don't understand why you can't place me in a shelter closer to the bathrooms," burst one man within earshot, his once finely-cut business suit starting to show the signs of wear one would expect to see from several months of near-constant use.

"Sir, I've _already_ explained this to you," began a visibly drained Petty Officer Rocca as she slowly turned to the man, no small measure of exasperation creeping into her tone. "The administration has reserved the shelters closest to the restrooms for families; as a bachelor…"

"So just because I don't have a couple rugrats running around my legs I don't have to go pee?" shot back the man indignantly.

"No, sir, it's just that…"

"_Look_, I know how this works, I know there's someone higher up than you I can talk to about this," continued the man obstinately, his expression and body-language a clear set of rehearsed signals calculated to intimidate Rocca into acquiescing.

Taking a deep breath, Sean Kelso glanced over at his father, the elder Kelso's eyes rolling a bit, showing that he too was no more impressed by the man's bluster than his son was.

Looking back over to Sean, Adrian's lips began to curl in the slightest hint of a grin as he motioned his head over towards the man haranguing Rocca with another long-winded explanation about how 'important' he was.

It was then that Rocca caught site of the Commander and his father watching nearby, her expression taking on a subtly pleading air for a moment as the man continued his tirade.

Gently clasping his hands behind his back, Commander Sean Kelso took in a deep breath, slipping on his best expression of nonchalance as he slowly made his way over to the scene.

"Sir, I've already told you…" began Rocca again, her tone becoming more frustrated by the moment even as she labored to avoid losing her composure altogether.

"And I've told _you_, I want to talk to someone with more authority," countered the inflexible man flatly, slowly crossing his arms as though he were some immovable statue.

"Is there a problem, Petty Officer Rocca?" asked Commander Kelso as he slowly stepped up unseen behind the man.

Somewhat startled by Kelso's unexpected appearance behind him, the man spun about as Rocca looked over at the Commander.

"This gentleman is just not very satisfied with where he's been assigned, Commander," replied Rocca, rolling her eyes slightly as the word 'gentleman' left her lips.

"Oh, a Commander, that's more like it," muttered the man as he turned more fully to face Kelso, his every motion still conveying his air of over-inflated self-importance.

"Oh, no, not '_a_' Commander, sir, '_the_' Commander," corrected Kelso as he slowly extended his hand to the man. "Sean Kelso."

Visibly uncertain for a moment as to what to make of Commander Kelso's not-so-subtle correction, the man nevertheless took hold of the outstretched hand in a quick, perfunctory shake.

"Well, Commander, as I was trying to explain to your subordinate here…"

"Oh, I overheard what you were telling her, so there is no need to go into it again," cut-in Commander Kelso as he gently held up his hand to the man. "What I'm trying to understand is, having received the _only_ answer you are going to get in this matter, why are you continuing to monopolize Petty Officer Rocca's time; in case you haven't noticed there are a lot of people waiting to get situated and she doesn't have time to waste with you."

"I don't appreciate you characterizing my legitimate concerns as a 'waste of time', Commander Kelso," snapped the man as he glared into the Commander's unflinching gaze. "And to be blunt, I also don't appreciate your tone either."

"Believe me, sir, I am breathtakingly aware that 'appreciation' is not something you have in much abundance," countered Kelso evenly, smirking slightly in response to the man's deepening glare. "Now, it's as simple as this; if you do not like where you have been assigned, you are more than welcome to wander off into the jungle, slap some sticks and leaves together wherever you wish and call it home. But right here, right now, sulking and haranguing my people isn't going to get you a damned thing, least of all my sympathy."

For a moment, the man simply stood there, the muscles in his jaws clenching visibly, a clear indication of just how much irritation the man was biting down upon at being spoken to in such an unceremonious fashion; clearly, whatever life he had lived before the destruction of the Colonies wasn't one where he'd been accustomed to being told to just 'suck it up', no matter how obliquely.

"Considering your attitude, Commander, I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to file a formal complaint with the government in this matter," the man seethed, his words coming through clenched teeth. "I will also make sure they are aware of your personal conduct; I don't expect they will look too kindly on a military officer bullying a citizen like this."

"Is that right?" grinned Commander Kelso, taking the slightest of steps closer to the man. "Well let me just tell you this; if by some perverse miracle you _do_ manage to get me relieved of duty, I will make sure I move into a shelter right next to yours, that way you'll be able to see me every day, lounging about, a smile on my face, utterly relieved at not being saddled with the responsibility of protecting an ungrateful fraking moron like you anymore."

With the man's face continuing to turn ever deeper shades of red, Commander Kelso slowly looked back over at Petty Officer Rocca.

"Unless I miss my guess, there's likely another group of refugees at the airfield in need of your assistance, Rocca," said Kelso evenly, his eyes slowly returning to the fuming man.

"Aye, sir," muttered Rocca, her voice little more than a stifled giggle as she turned and quickly began making her way back towards the airfield.

After a few more moments of tense silence wherein the man seemed little more than flustered to the point of utter speechlessness, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned a startling shade of white as he scowled back at the Commander, Kelso let out a slightly disgusted snort, turned, and made his way back over to his father, leaving the man to stew in his impotent indignation.

* * *

><p><strong>Operation Fritz Orange<br>****Hammerhead One-One-Three-Eight  
><strong>**July 2065**

At the relatively short briefing that morning, with the facts, figures and objectives scrawled out in pen on a simple whiteboard, the mission plan had seemed straightforward enough; the Fifty-Eighth would be flying cover for the Air Force's Three-Thirty-Fifth Squadron while they delivered a strike package of heavy anti-ship missiles on an enemy fleet.

Hell, even the comparatively quaint hand-drawn diagrams showing the combined strike's anticipated approach angles and unit formations had made the plan seem somewhat less than daunting.

In retrospect, after two years of combat, Captain Nathan West mused for a moment that he _really_ should have known better.

"_West, break hard right, now!_"

The sound of Hawkes' voice booming in over his helmet speakers didn't so much register in his conscious thoughts as it did prompt a visceral, purely reflexive reaction, an impulse that had West pulling hard over on his control yoke, pitching the nose of his Hammerhead into a sudden hard high-G turn.

As the mounting force of pure physics pressed down on his body, squeezing the breath from him, feeling as though an elephant had decided to sit upon his chest, West cast a momentary glance down at his LIDAR display, checking instinctively for signs of the enemy craft Hawkes' entreat implied was bearing in on his plane.

With his coursing blood pounding in his temples, West finally caught a glimmer of not one but a trio of bandits holding fast to his tail, following him through the physically punishing maneuver.

"If no one is busy, I could really use a bit of help over here," gasped West as he held the tight turn, knowing full well that with his throttles still wide open, he was treading upon an exceedingly fine tightrope between what he could and could not put his body through before it gave up and he simply passed out.

In reality, West wasn't certain anyone would actually be coming to help him; at the moment the Five-Eight as a unit was outnumbered three to one and heavily engaged.

Still, it didn't hurt to ask.

As his ears continued to absorb the ringing cacophony of the action taking place in space around him coming in over his helmet speakers, but no calls indicating anyone was coming to his assistance, West let out a somewhat derisive snort, reached up, pulled back hard on his throttles, popped open his thrust reversers, then threw his control yoke hard over again, this time to the left, again pitching the nose of his Hammerhead into another tight turn.

While he had hoped the sudden reverse in his turn and drop in velocity might cause his pursuers to overshoot, to his grim disappointment West noted his pursuers were not thrown off in the least, all three craft managing to correct their course, not enough to get a firing solution, but still enough to keep up the pressure on him.

"_King of Hearts, Queen of Diamonds; hold your turn but throttle back up to help me engage; I'm coming in from your one o'clock high; I'll make a pass, see if I can shake up the bandits on your tail_."

"Copy that," snapped West, smirking slightly as he gently nudged his throttles back open while holding his plane in its tight turn.

In spite of the hostile trio of planes still holding tight to his six, West couldn't help but be heartened by the knowledge that in very short order Vansen would be pouncing on his pursuers.

Glancing away from his flight panel, West looked out in the direction Vansen indicated she was vectoring in from; sure enough there she was.

Trouble was she wasn't coming in alone.

Even as Vansen's plane angled in for a passing run on the bandits holding fast to West's six, she herself was being hounded by another trio of ships.

In an instant, West made a choice; if Vansen was going to help clear his tail, he might as well take the opportunity to return the favor.

Quickly killing the thrust output from his left engine, West grunted heavily against the inertia as he tightened his already extremely tight turn, pulling up on his nose a bit at the same time. As Vansen's plane rocketed by his, West then executed a very deft one-eighty inversion roll, the maneuver bringing the menacing cannon mounted below the chin of his Hammerhead to bear on the trio harrying Vansen.

Visibly surprised by the sudden 'appearance' of his Hammerhead in a firing position ahead of their flight, the trio suddenly peeled away from Vansen's tail, each ship veering off in a separate direction even as Vansen's maneuver likewise managed to shake off the ships pursuing West's plane.

"_King of Hearts, Queen of Diamonds; your tail is clear_,' called Vansen, a hint of subdued triumph in her voice.

"This is King of Hearts, same-same, your bandits have pulled off as well," replied West, grinning slightly as he looked back down at his LIDAR. "Thanks for the assist."

"_Semper-Fi,_" muttered Vansen simply.

Smirking slightly, West kept a keen eye on LIDAR as the two groups of bandits swung around and settled into formation with one another, from their posture, clearly intent on jumping back in on West and Vansen as a combined group.

"Looks like they're getting ready to jump back in, Queen," called West as he glanced over and saw Vansen sliding up off his wing. "You got my wing?"

"_No_," replied Vansen, an almost audible smirk in her tone. "_You have mine_."

Before West could retort, Vansen pulled her plane into another hard turn, clearly angling her nose over for a straight-on pass at the combined hostile group closing back in.

Following a split second later, West pulled into a low-support position off Vansen's tail.

"Thirty second from the merge," called West as he glanced down at his LIDAR. "Are you getting a firm lock over there?"

"_Affirm_," replied Vansen simply. "_I should be able to light up at least two with this pass_."

Grinning a bit at Vansen's clearly resurgent bravado, West looked back out past his canopy, the image on his HUD highlighting the targets careening in at his direct front.

As his own targeting system locked on, West gently slipped his finger in over the trigger for his Hammerhead's chin cannon, intent on ripping into the bandits with a burst as soon as the ships were in range.

"_All units, all units; this is Queen Six_."

Even as he sat there, his ass strapped to a Hammerhead cutting a course through the vacuum at full tilt, his finger poised to open up with a devastating barrage at the formation racing in towards his nose, West nevertheless managed to perk his ears up a bit at the sound of Colonel McQueen's voice filtering in over the unit-TAC.

"_Be advised, Watchtower confirms successful strike by the Three-Thirty-Fifth; all enemy capital units neutralized; this is an Endex, I say again, this is an Endex; all units disengage and RTB for debrief_."

Letting out a slightly relieved sigh, West reached up and slowly pulled back on his throttles as the 'enemy' ships directly ahead pulled away from their approach.

"Queen-Six, King of Hearts; acknowledge Endex," said West evenly as he reached over and secured his Hammerhead's targeting computer systems. "Five-Eight, this is King of Hearts, go ahead and form back up into elements, four-finger formations and let's get back to the deck."

Looking out past his cockpit as the other members of the Five-Eight acknowledged the order, West watched as Vansen throttled back her own plane, settling in just off his right wing.

"_Damn that sucks_," muttered Vansen with a slight sigh. "_I can't believe they just called Endex like that; I was lined up for a perfect pass that would have clipped at least two of those zoomies_."

"A real coitus interruptus, eh, Shane?" smirked West as he looked over at Shane's plane, noting with some amusement as she pressed her gloved-hand up against the side of her cockpit and extended a middle finger his direction.

"_At least you two were still in the fight_," muttered Wang with a snort as his own plane slipped in off of West's left wing. "_Bastards got me with a quick kill five minutes into the exercise; guess I'm a bit rusty on the stick_."

"Rusty my ass," replied West simply as he watched the rest of the Five-Eight settle into their formations around him. "You got clipped because you didn't listen to me when I told you to pitch your nose over."

"_Anyone know how many we managed to take out of the fight_?" asked Lieutenant Low simply.

"Well, I got two," muttered West as he ran a cursory diagnostic on his plane's systems.

"_One and a half_," countered Hawkes as he settled in off of Wang's wing. "_We both had that one ship in a cross-fire_."

"Whatever, man," muttered West, shaking his head slightly. "Keegan, what about your flight, how'd you guys square up?"

"_Oh, hell, who can tell_," snorted 'Gramps' Keegan. "_I'm still not convinced the Eighteenth and Sixty-Forth were playing by the rules out there; I swear I saw some of them still vectoring in after they were 'killed'_."

"Well, they wouldn't be good aggressors if they weren't willing to aggress," muttered West as he casually looked out past his canopy towards the growing image of Earth beyond. "Why let a little thing like ROE's get in the way of being good 'bad guys'?"

"_Well, they can kiss the darkest part of my lily-white ass if they think they're getting a pitcher of draft out of my credit account by cheating_," countered Keegan flatly. "_It was bad enough they already had the deck stacked in their favor by having us go up against their new Ravens in Hammerheads; Laturner and I had to go old school with the Thatch Weave just to stay in the mix_."

"_Damn_," growled Wang, the audible thump of what was doubtless him all but punching something in his cockpit echoing behind with his voice. "_See, Hawkes, I told you we should have_…"

"_You told me squat_,_ Wang_," interjected Hawkes flatly, a slight raspberry escaping him as he spoke. "_Last thing you said to me before they culled you away was 'where did he go', and then, bam, he had your ass_."

"Alright, lock it up," muttered West evenly as he continued to eye Earth. "Just because the Chigs haven't been sighted in system for several weeks doesn't mean they can't choose this moment to show back up; I want your eyes open for any signs of the enemy until we're back on the deck and then you can sort out who owes whom the beers."

"_Solid copy, King of Hearts_," sighed Wang.

With that, the members of the Five-Eight settled back into the routine of monitoring the minutiae that came with operating a group of aerospace fighters flying in formation through the vacuum of space at a 'leisurely' velocity of just over seven-hundred meters per second.

Looking up from his flight panel, West locked his eyes once more on the gleaming sight of the Earth beyond. From the very first moment he had seen a picture of how the Earth looked from orbit, a young Nathan West had dreamed of seeing the planet of his birth from that vantage point. Now that he had seen it, indeed, saw it now on an almost routine basis, he nevertheless felt heartened by the fact that the sight of the beautiful blue world he called home still had the power to take his breath away.

At least the war hadn't managed to steal that simple joy from him.

As his Hammerhead continued to churn up the distance from the flight range back to Earth, West was soon able to discern the hard outlines and muted military tones of the myriad of warships holding vigilant orbit high above the world below. For a moment, he pondered, and was somewhat humbled by the sight; the relatively puny and fragile collection of hulls framed by the expansive globe, some little more than dots cast against a backdrop of swirling, puffy clouds.

And yet it was upon the dutiful diligence of these comparatively miniscule sentinels that the survival of literally billions rested and depended.

"_Hey, check out the drydock at our four o'clock low_," chimed in Hawkes. "_Is is me, or is that the '_Toga_ down there_?"

Glancing out in the direction Hawkes had indicated, West couldn't help but grin a bit.

"_That's the _Saratoga _alright_," said Wang, his own elation evident in his tone. "_Looks like they're really fitting her out for her next bout with the Chigs_."

As the Five-Eight continued to sail ever closer to the carrier that had been their home for most of the last two years, West could hardly miss the flurry of activity taking place within the maze of scaffolding enveloping her. All across her hull, an army of workers in EVA suits hustled about at a seemingly feverish pace to not just patch but truly repair the numerous scars wrought upon her proud frame by months of unceasing combat behind enemy lines. Bathed within the glow of massive floodlights, the frenetic industrial ballet labored to maneuver large sections of hull plating into place, the jagged remains of the shattered sections they were replacing being shuttled away by the numerous small repair craft some unknown engineer had long-ago aptly dubbed 'workbees'.

But more than simple repair, it was apparent that some long-overdue upgrades were also being carried out on the _Saratoga_'s weapon systems as well. Running along tracks mounted to the scaffold structures, heavy manipulator arms were moving new turrets into place; larger, and more importantly, more numerous. In addition, along her hull to both port and starboard, rows of anti-aerospace craft batteries were likewise being installed, grafted onto a hull that had sustained more than its fair share of punishment for lack of adequate defenses against the swarms of Chig fighters she'd faced time and again.

For a moment, West couldn't help but wonder how many of the upgrades being made had already been on the drawing board and how many had been prompted by the example of the bristling array of weapons carried by the Colonial warships.

Whatever the inspiration though, one thing was clear, by the time the _Saratoga_ was once again ready to wade into the fight, she'd be packing one hell-of-a heavier punch when she did. And for that one brief moment, Captain Nathan West couldn't help but utterly relish the idea of witnessing that punch when it was finally thrust once more into the nose of the enemy, be it Chig or Silicate.

* * *

><p>With a slight hop, West dropped down off the retractable ladder of his Hammerhead onto the tarmac at Nellis Joint Aerospace Forces Base. Reflexively sliding a set of sunglasses into place over his eyes against the mid-afternoon glare, he took in another searing lungful of the Las Vegas summer air.<p>

Glancing back up at his cockpit, West felt a bit odd about leaving it propped open per base SOP, almost as though he were leaving the proverbial keys in the ignition by doing so. But, leaving the cockpit open like that had long ago been deemed one of the most effective ways of keeping the temperature inside the cockpit from getting high enough to possibly damage the Hammerhead's sensitive electronics as it sat idle on the tarmac beneath the utterly oppressive summer sun beating down from overhead.

"Yeah Wang, but it's a _dry_ heat," muttered Hawkes as he and Wang stepped up beside West's plane.

"Dry heat my ass, it's like an oven out here," groaned Wang, a stream of sweat pouring down the side of his cheek. "Look at me, I'm sweating like a whore in church; ain't a damned thing on me that's 'dry' right now. I'm starting to chafe in places I don't even want to think about."

As if to emphasize his point, Wang made somewhat of a show of reaching down and giving the crotch of his flightsuit an awkward tug.

"You better get that itch checked out," grinned West as he watched Wang continue to wiggle uncomfortably. "Might be contagious."

"Most social infections are," chimed in Stone as he and Low came ambling up.

"I hope she was worth it, Paul," chuckled Low as she watched Wang continue to fidget a bit.

"Yeah, okay, ha-ha, big laugh," snorted Wang as he gave up trying to adjust himself into some semblance of comfort. "Now can we please just get inside where they have some AC before my boys shrivel up into raisins?"

"Where's Keegan and Laturner?" asked West simply as he absently swiped at the trickle of sweat crawling down the side of his face.

"They're coming up right now," replied Low as she pointed off along the flightline.

"What about Vansen?" asked Hawkes as he ducked down a bit to look out past the underbelly of West's plane along the flightline.

"I think she's still finishing her post-flight," replied Low as she pointed her helmet over towards Vansen's parked plane.

Ducking down a bit himself, West looked past the belly of his plane and caught sight of Shane making slow circles around her Hammerhead.

"Well, no point in you guys continuing to stew out here in the heat," sighed West as he straightened back up. "Go ahead and start making your way inside for the debrief."

"Thank god," groaned Wang as he gave the neck of his flightsuit a tug.

As Wang, Stone and Low began making their way off across the tarmac, both Keegan and Laturner quickly linked up with the gaggle. As the others continued to make their way off the flightline. West and Hawkes slowly stepped around the nose of West's Hammerhead, their eyes continuing to watch Shane as she continued to make slow circles around her plane.

"Seems a bit much for a simple post-flight," muttered Hawkes. "You think maybe they let her back into the cockpit too soon?"

"I don't know," shrugged West as he watched Vansen. "I didn't notice anything squirrely about her during the exercise, did you?"

"Nadda," replied Hawkes, letting out a slow sigh as he glared up momentarily at the blazing sun overhead. "Hell, the way she handled herself out there you wouldn't have thought Shane had been away from the cockpit at all these last few months."

"She did seem to be holding her own today," sighed West, momentarily recalling the bold maneuver she'd pulled to chase the three aggressors off his tail.

"Well shouldn't we go talk to her or something?" prodded Hawkes.

Looking over into the expectant eyes of his squadron-mate, West smirked a bit.

Hawkes had always held a peculiar protectiveness when it came to Vansen. Most simply wrote it off as a mild crush, others likened it to Vansen somehow taking on the role of mother-figure to the InVitro. Near as West had ever been able to tell, both descriptions likely had some nugget of truth behind them.

"Why don't you go ahead and catch back up with the others," began West as he gave Hawkes' shoulder a gentle pat. "I'll go see what's up with Shane."

"You sure you don't want me to come along?"

West returned his attention to Vansen as he pondered that for a moment. At this point, Shane had to be making at least her seventh or eighth circuit around the exterior of her plane.

"No, you go in with the rest," grinned West as he gave Hawkes' shoulder a gentle nudge. "Remember, we're in deep in zoomie territory right now; it'd be best if we have at least one set of Captain's bars running herd over the others."

"Copy that," sighed Hawkes as he cast one last look over in Vansen's direction. "Just be sure to let me know what happens when you talk to her."

As Hawkes began making his way off along the flightline, West gathered up his helmet and gear and began making his way over to Vansen.

"You know, I really don't think you need to worry about it wandering off while we're inside, Shane," quipped West as he stepped closer. "As long as you put the parking brake on, I'm pretty sure it will still be here when we get back."

Glancing back over her shoulder, Vansen smirked.

For his part, West tried to take that as a good sign.

"So, you gonna tell me what's up with the ultra-thorough post-flight?" sighed West as he settled in beside Vansen.

"Guess I just kinda got lost in my thoughts for a moment," shrugged Vansen as she casually reached out and ran her fingers along the edge of one of the forward canards.

"Anything you want to talk about?" asked West evenly.

Glancing back over at West for a moment, Vansen shrugged a bit as she let out a clipped breath.

"I don't know, I'm not sure I know how to explain it," replied Vansen as she continued to run her fingers along the canard. "Being back in the cockpit just felt…"

"Weird, different, scary?" offered West, each random adjective being met with a slight shake of the head from Vansen.

"No, it just felt…_right_," replied Vansen, an almost pained grin on her face as the last word left her mouth.

"I'm not following you, Shane," sighed West as he slowly set his gear down.

Stepping up on the opposite side of the canard from Vansen, West slowly removed his sunglasses and looked her directly in the eye, gauging her, trying to elicit by proximity some deeper understanding of whatever it was that was jumbling about in her thoughts.

"Up there today, it was just me and my plane," began Vansen after a few moments, her fingers continuing to all but caress the edge of the canard. "The rest of the Five-Eight was out there, but for the first time, I wasn't the one in command."

"Look, Shane, you know as well as I do that me playing honcho is temporary," said West evenly. "As soon as the higher-ups see that you're back on your feet, you'll be lead pilot again."

"That's the thing, Nathan," snapped Vansen, her tone not so much angry as it was merely firm. "I don't _want_ to be lead pilot anymore, I don't want to be responsible everyone else in the squadron anymore, I just want what I felt out there today; one pilot, one plane."

"That's going to be a bit hard to pull off," said West as he casually glanced up at the tiny lone cloud hanging overhead. "We might both be Captains now, but you have time in grade."

"Maybe I can get myself busted back to Lieutenant, then," smirked Vansen as she looked back over at her open cockpit.

For a moment, West simply watched her, silent, appraising.

Taking a breath, Vansen casually reached down and began to gather up her flight gear, her expression clearly hesitant.

As she moved to begin walking off the flightline, West gently reached over and grabbed hold of her shoulder.

To his surprise, Vansen flinched bodily, prompting him to immediately withdraw his hand.

"Sorry," she muttered weakly, trying to cover her reaction with a weak laugh. "Still a little keyed up I guess."

"Come on, Shane, what's going on?" asked West pointedly.

Taking a deep sigh, Vansen looked down at her boots for a moment, gently scrapping her toe against the tarmac.

"I don't want to quit, I _want_ to be back out there in the fight, Nathan," she finally began, shaking her head slightly as she looked him in the eye. "Hell, I've _earned_ the right to be back out there in the fight, but, I just don't want to be responsible for the safety of everyone in the squadron anymore."

"Does this have anything to do with 'Phousse?" asked West pointedly. "Shane, you're not responsible for the injuries she sustained when you two were shot down, you know that."

For her part, Vansen's expression was still hesitant.

"You know, she might still get clearance to fly again," continued West. "The docs are just being thorough in her case; she suffered some pretty significant head trauma when you two went down, and you know better than anyone how little medical treatment she received once you were thrown in that camp."

"Maybe," muttered Vansen weakly. "But that's not the only thing reason, Nathan."

Now it was West's turn to hesitate. On the one hand, he felt certain Vansen was on the cusp of truly letting him in on whatever it was that had her so pensive, but at the same time he didn't want to push her too hard otherwise she might just as easily retreat further into her own brooding. One could never really tell with Shane which approach was appropriate; sometimes she played the oddest things closer to the cuff than one would expect.

"When I joined the Marines, it was the first time since my parents had died that I was doing something for myself, by myself," began Vansen, slowly looking off at the somewhat barren mountain only a short distance away. "But once the war started, as much as I tried to avoid it, somehow it fell upon me to be the one in charge."

Taking a deep breath, Vansen gently shook her head as she looked back over at West.

"The one thing you have in a POW camp is _time_," began Vansen after a few moments, her gaze still somewhat distant. "When we weren't down in the mines, or we weren't being tortured by the Silicates, all I had was time to think, and all I could think about was all the times my actions, the calls that I'd made in combat might have been the wrong ones, might have gotten someone killed. I don't want that on my conscience anymore, not right now at least."

As he watched her, West's mind groped to find some words to try and assuage what Vansen was clearly grappling with; if nothing else, the kind of self-doubt that she was dealing with could be as lethal to a combat pilot as the enemy themselves. Unfortunately, West quickly realized that he had no such words of comfort if only because he himself had spent no small amount of time trying to keep his own doubts from bubbling to the surface.

"All right," he finally sighed.

Slowly, Vansen looked back over at West, her gaze somewhat less distant than it had been a moment before.

"For now, I'll play honcho," continued West as he snatched up his gear and motioned his head over towards the building where the rest of the Five-Eight had already escaped from the summer heat. "But that doesn't mean you're off the hook, my friend."

"And just what do you mean by that?" smirked Vansen as she and West started off across the tarmac.

"I may be playing honcho for now, but I still need you to be my acting exec," replied West evenly, shaking his head slightly. "Hawkes may be a good stick, but if I made _him_ exec, I'd spend the rest of the war unfucking his paperwork."

* * *

><p><strong>Dolphin Island<br>****Private Residence of President Paul Bess**

"New Caprica?" muttered Commander Sean Kelso, a slight grimace crossing his features as the words left his lips. "I'd imagine there's more than a few non-Capricans who've settled here that might take issue with that name; seems a bit pretentious."

"Fortunately it is only one of the names being floated for our new home," replied President Bess evenly as he leaned in a bit over the simple table. "Frankly, I wasn't too fond of it either when I first heard it, but in the end it's for the people to decide in next month's special referendum."

"Well, initial chaos aside, it would seem that most everyone is settling in nicely," sighed Adrian Kelso as he slowly settled back into his seat.

"There's still plenty of details to be worked out, mostly infrastructure and supply distribution, but the general mood of the people has improved since they got some solid, natural soil beneath their feet," muttered President Bess as he reached over and eagerly plucked an apple from the small basket of fruit in the center of the table. "That's a start, at least."

Holding the apple somewhat appraisingly for a moment, the President grinned slightly as he finally brought it to his lips and took a loud, crunchy bite from it.

With his grin growing into a full bonafide smile as he savored the sweet bite, a sincere expression of enjoyment softening his features, President Bess slowly settled back into his seat and looked up at the rounded corrugated ceiling overhead.

"Fringe benefit of settling in," muttered Bess through half-a mouthful as he held the apple up a bit. "You gentlemen feel free."

Chuckling a bit, Adrian Kelso reached out towards the fruit bowl and retrieved one of the apples for himself, likewise taking a seemingly inordinate amount of time savoring the first bite.

"I understand the details for turning over our civilian ships have been finalized," said Sean Kelso as he considered grabbing an apple for himself as well.

"That they have," replied Bess with a slight nod as he took another bite from the apple in his hand, gently playing with the remainder in his fingers as he chewed, then swallowed. "The final vote in the UN General Assembly went through yesterday on which firms would be getting the contracts. Most of the civilian liners will be ferried out to locations around the planet in the morning, _Limnos_ and _Kilkis_ will be turned over sometime next week."

"And what about the crews of those ships?" asked Adrian Kelso evenly as he lifted his own apple back to his lips.

"Well I'd imagine a few will be tapped for their technical expertise while Earth's engineers and scientists move forward with the reverse engineering efforts," began Bess, pausing long enough to finish off the last few bites of his apple. "But most of them will likely have to find some other line of work here once the turn-over is complete."

"Now there's a problem that's going to be a headache tackling long-term; employment," muttered Adrian Kelso through a partial mouthful of apple.

"Considering we were facing extinction as a society only a few months ago, that should be a mundane crisis by comparison," smirked Bess as he casually tossed the apple core in a wastebasket nearby. "But, there _is_ some stark truth in that; beautiful as this island is there is a dearth when it comes to potential industry beyond agriculture. Setting up a functional economic system is going to be a struggle for some time to come."

"Have there been any indications that the supply agreements we set up in exchange for our ships and technology might shrivel up?" asked Sean Kelso evenly.

"For now, no," replied Bess, a slow sigh escaping him as he continued to lounge in his seat. "But, we can't allow our people to become overly dependent on the charity coming in from around the world."

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it charity, Mister President," countered Sean Kelso as he absently cracked a few knuckles on his right hand. "Between the civilians liners, the _Limnos_ and the _Kilkis_, we've more than balanced out the ledger for the supplies that have been coming in.

"For the time being perhaps," sighed Bess as he gently closed his eyes. "But we'll still need to move quickly to organize the people, get a better idea of what their individual skill sets are and figure out how best to put them back into use."

Pausing, President Bess then opened his eyes again and slowly sat back up more fully in his seat.

"Speaking of organizing; how goes the reorganization of the fleet, Commander?" asked the President evenly.

"Leaps and bounds, Mister President," smiled Commander Sean Kelso. "We've already consolidated most of the military personnel who've been assigned to _Limnos_ and _Kilkis_ these last several months and transferred them to other posts."

"What about the _Pacifica_ and _Asterica_?" asked Adrian evenly.

"We'll be assigning small maintenance crews to man them," replied Commander Kelso as he began cracking the knuckles of his left hand. "Since they're not armed we can't use them for fleet operations, but their DRADIS and radiological detection systems are still useful in augmenting Earth's orbital surveillance network."

"And what about the repairs to the _Enceladus_ and the _Proteus_?" asked the President pointedly as he finally leaned forward once more over the simple table.

"Just about complete, actually," replied Commander Kelso with a grin. "At first I had some concerns regarding the ability to obtain proper materials, but luckily Earth's ceramics and metallurgical technology is not very far behind our own. Both vessels should be back to full operational status by the end of the week."

"And the airwings?" asked Adrian, his tone somewhat hesitant. "Did as many of the civilian pilots opt to muster out as we'd feared?"

"Surprisingly, no," replied Commander Kelso, genuine gratification underlying his tone. "In fact, almost all of them have agreed to remain on active duty for the time being, a good number have even requested full reactivation of their commissions."

"Go with what you know, I suppose," muttered Bess, more than a bit of prideful in his tone; not really unwarranted considering most of those civilian pilots had been his own people from the Sagittaron Depot. "Still, I think I'll look into establishing some form of special commendation to recognize their dedication to duty."

"Well, with respect, Mister President, I don't think they're looking for any ribbons," replied Commander Kelso evenly. "Major Culver was pretty well respected by most of our pilots; if I read the mood in the ready-rooms correctly, I think a few of them might be out for some payback as much as anything."

"Speaking of which, have you made any headway in choosing a new CAG?" asked Bess.

"Actually, Mister President, I _do_ have a candidate in mind."

* * *

><p>Standing at the edge of the surf, a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea, Pan-Colonial Luxury Liners Captain Jack Foster stood looking up at the myriad of twinkling stars cast across the sky overhead.<p>

For a moment, Jack Foster couldn't help but acknowledge the irony in that; after spending so many months wandering the deepest depths of space with little to see but the stars, all he could do now, with his bare feet caressed by real sand, with unfiltered air filling his lungs was look back out at those stars with a peculiar longing.

Maybe it was because from the surface of a planet stars looked different. In space, with no atmosphere to distort them, they were steady points of light, unmoving against an endless sea of truly obsidian blackness. But from the surface of a living, breathing world, they twinkled like jewels, danced across the skies from horizon to horizon, almost beckoning to him even now that there were still some measure of delightful adventure and mystery to be found amongst them.

With a long sigh, Jack Foster slowly looked down at the nametag in his hand, the simple Pan-Colonial logo a bit worn after so many years of wear. For five years, he'd worn this nametag, this simple badge that had pegged him as a dutiful shipmaster.

But Pan-Colonial was gone now, lost amid the conflagration of the Twelve Colonies. Come tomorrow morning, Pan-Colonial Liner Colonial Heavy Two-Zero-Seven, near as he could tell the very last Pan-Colonial Liner in the galaxy, would be consigned to slow disassembly. It really wasn't an ignoble end; the workings of her propulsion systems, technology wholly unknown on this world, would be analyzed and duplicated in an effort to bring to an end what was clearly a very bloody, brutal war.

Still, with no ship, no passengers, no noble responsibility, Jack Foster contemplated the profound unknown of what his life might soon become once he was left planet-bound.

Looking back out at the midnight horizon, Jack Foster clenched his hand around the nametag, then slowly brought his hand back, preparing to throw it off into the briny depths.

"Captain Foster."

His action stilled by the sound of the voice from behind him, Jack slowly turned around to see the dark outline of a body coming down the beach.

"Commander Kelso," replied Foster as the identity of the voice registered in his mind. "How are you this evening?"

"Doing well actually, yourself?" asked the Commander as he slowly stepped up beside Foster.

"Not too bad, I suppose," he replied as he slowly looked once more at the nametag in his hand.

"I understand you're flying your ship out in the morning," said Commander Kelso as he looked down and noticed the nametag.

"Yes, sir," replied Foster with a slight nod of the head. "Colonial Heavy Two-Zero-Seven's last flight."

"Hate to admit it, but I'm kind of sad to see her go," sighed the Commander as he slowly bent down and picked up a rock, casually tossing it off into the rolling waves a moment later.

"She's just a ship," shrugged Foster.

"I can think of more than a few Marines who might think a bit differently about that," countered Commander Kelso. "In her after-action report, Captain Gaines was pretty descriptive when it came to how you managed to bring that liner down right in the middle of a tight courtyard. I think her exact words were 'the pilot maneuvered the surprisingly nimble craft with the dexterity of a Raptor', no small feat."

"A good pilot know the limits of his ship, a better pilot knows how to coax her just a bit beyond them," grinned Foster.

"And what about a great pilot?"

With a slight snort, Jack Foster once again cocked his hand back and prepared to toss his nametag out into the surf.

To his surprise, Commander Kelso very deftly reached out and snatched the nametag from his hand.

"If you don't want this, I think I'll take it," he said as Foster looked over at him, clearly somewhat surprised.

"Any particular reason why, Commander?"

"Too many things about the Twelve Colonies have been lost," replied Commander Kelso evenly as he looked down somewhat appraisingly at the nametag. "Hate to think of one more thing simply being tossed away for no good reason."

To his surprise, Jack Foster felt himself flush a bit.

"Well, with respect, Commander, since that is _my_ nametag, I think it's up to _me_ to decide whether it is worth keeping."

Looking back over at Foster, Commander Kelso canted his head a bit for a moment, seemingly weighing the merits of what Foster had just said, or perhaps more importantly, the tone of voice in which it had been said.

"Okay," he finally said, slowly extending his hand with the nametag back towards Foster.

As Foster began to reach out for it, the Commander pulled his hand back slightly.

"How about a trade, then?" asked the Commander pointedly, gently waggling the nametag in his fingers as the words left his mouth.

His brow furrowing a bit, Foster looked Commander Kelso in the eye, somewhat perplexed by the question.

"Trade for what, exactly?" asked Foster as he noted a slight grin begin to creep across Commander Kelso's lips.

Without a word, the Commander dropped the hand with the nametag down to his side, then reached into his pocket with the other. After barely a second of searching, Commander Kelso held a clenched fist out towards Foster, nodding slightly towards Foster as he did so. As Foster held his hand out below the Commander's, Kelso gently dropped what he was holding into Jack's hand.

In spite of the pale ambient light, Jack Foster was nevertheless able to see the gentle glint of polished metal and distinct outline of a set of Senior Pilot wings resting in his palm.

"What's this?" chuckled Foster as he steepled his fingers around the wings.

"Simple exchange," shrugged Commander Kelso as he slowly held back up the nametag. "One set of wings for another."

Pausing, Foster looked back over at the Commander somewhat incredulously.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not supposed to let these just gather dust in some shadowbox somewhere?"

"Because you're not," answered Commander Kelso flatly. "I need a CAG."

"CAG?" sputtered Foster, his voice breaking off into a dubious chuckle as he gently shook his head. "What, _me_?"

"I've gone over the dossier you provided to the government," began Kelso evenly. "Ten years service with the fleet, including surprisingly early stints as both a flight leader aboard the _Ouranos_ and squadron XO aboard _Triton_, qualified in both Viper and Raptor operations; frankly you're more experienced than just about anyone we have on the active roster right now."

"But, I've spent the last _five_ years flying a bus," chuckled Foster as he slowly held the Senior Pilot wings out to Kelso. "I'm not qualified to be CAG, Commander."

"Sorry, no trade-backs," smirked Kelso as he held his hand up. "This is about more than mere line items in a file, Mister Foster, this is about character; I need someone who has guts and initiative as well as technical expertise. When it comes right down to it, I need someone who's going to be able to motivate our pilots by example."

Pausing, Kelso took a tentative step closer to a still visibly uncertain Foster.

"You, sir, flew an _unarmed_ transport right into the heart of occupied enemy space and came back out without so much as a chip in the paint job," grinned Kelso. "That's exactly the kind of fortitude I need leading my pilots right now."

Then, without another word, the Commander turned and began slowly making his way back up the beach.

"And what makes you think I'm actually going to pin these on?" called Foster out as he watched the Commander retreat back towards the shadows along the edge of the treeline.

"The way you were looking at the stars just now," replied Commander Kelso, never once turning back as he continued to make his way back up the shore. "You're a pilot, through-and-through, Mister Foster; you belong in the air."

"I could still refuse," countered Foster.

Pausing, Commander Kelso slowly turned back for a moment.

"You could, but the President could simply draft you back into service anyway; emergency war powers and all."

"Why do I get the feeling you've already had a conversation with President Bess about that possibility?"

"Maybe," shrugged the Commander.

"Serves me right for voting for him, I suppose," smirked Foster as he looked back down at the Senior Pilot wings.

"I'll see you when you get back, _Major_ Foster," said Commander Kelso simply as he turned and resumed making his way back up the beach.

As the Commander was swallowed by the shadows along the treeline, Jack Foster took in a deep breath as he turned back towards the rolling waves.

After a few more moments of staring at the wings in his hand, Foster slowly reached up and affixed them to the shirt he was wearing. It wasn't exactly regulation, but if he was consigned by either the gods or the fates to wear them, he reckoned this moment as opportune as any to get used to the feel of them.

With a few last gentle movements, Foster carefully straightened them, then pulled his fingers away to allow the soft ambient light to sparkle across the anodized metal.

Slowly looking back up at the similarly twinkling stars overhead, Jack Foster let out a long sigh, his lips somewhat reflexively spreading into a simple grin.

Almost in spite of himself, Jack Foster quickly realized just how easily he could get used to wearing them.

* * *

><p><strong>Earth<br>****Location Unknown**

Awakening with a start, Michael Lane sucked in a deep drag of air as he bolted into an upright position on the simple bench. But even as his feet fell over the side of the bench, he was gripped by an utterly gut-twisting wave of nausea that quickly sapped the surge of adrenaline that accompanied his sudden return to consciousness.

Gulping down against the copious bile seeping into his mouth, Michael Lane felt more than a touch groggy, yet still reeling a bit as he tried to take in his surroundings, desperate to ferret out some clue as to where he'd apparently been brought.

With only a single light hanging from the center of the ceiling, the vast majority of the room's details were lost in the stifling shadows beyond the lone beam cast from overhead. The air was heavy with a dank, musty scent.

With a sudden surge of anger welling up in him, Michael Lane came to one inescapable conclusion; he'd been kidnapped.

In spite of the lingering vertigo still gripping him, Lane mustered himself to try and stand up from the bench.

"I wouldn't suggest that, Mister Lane," came a low voice from the shadows. "The sedative is still wearing off so you'll likely just crumple to the ground and injure yourself."

Somewhat startled by the unexpected voice, Lane nevertheless tested the ability of his arms and legs to push him up from the bench. Much to his chagrin, he realized that the voice was correct; in spite of whatever adrenaline was still lingering in his bloodstream, Michael Lane could not muster himself to rise from the bench.

"Who the hell are you?" he finally groaned as he peered off into the shadows, his slightly blurred vision trying to discern where the voice had come from.

"As many times as we've spoken, I'm surprised you don't recognize my voice," countered the voice. "I must say, I'm a bit hurt at that, Michael."

While the sedative still left him physically weakened, Lane was at least grateful that whatever it was, his mind had cleared enough that he quickly realized he did indeed recognize the voice.

"Dillinger?" he whispered. "What the hell is going on, where are we?"

"A secure location, I assure you," replied Dillinger as he slowly stepped into view from the darkness.

Moving into the center of the light, Dillinger, a man whom Lane had never actually met before face-to-face, slowly set a chair down opposite of Lane.

"What the hell happened?" snapped Lane as he looked across at the man in the chair. "I went alone to meet your courier as we agreed…"

"Plans change," replied Dillinger simply, raising his hand slightly as if to try and mollify Lane's dour demeanor. "Besides, meeting to exchange merchandise in some vacant lot in the middle of the night; it's so cliché."

"And drugging and kidnapping me is an original concept?"

"Perhaps not, but in my line of work, sometimes you have to bow to the dramatic in order to ensure nothing gets fucked up," said Dillinger evenly. "Besides, if I had told you my men were going to sedate you when you arrived for the rendezvous, would you have still come?"

"Probably not," admitted Lane, smirking slightly. "But now that I am here, what next?"

"Now we go ahead with the exchange," replied Dillinger, his tone surprisingly nonchalant.

Slowly reaching up, Lane ran his hand across the breast of his suit jacket and was genuinely surprised when he felt the outline of the flash drive he'd brought with him for the exchange.

"What, did you think I'd stolen it from you?" asked Dillinger, a slight grin on his face.

"Considering the circumstances, can you blame me for considering it?" replied Lane, a slightly uncomfortable smirk on his face. "You did after all drug me and bring me here against my will."

"Necessity of circumstance," countered Dillinger evenly. "But I'd still prefer to think there is still some measure of honor amongst thieves."

Scoffing a bit at that, Lane reached into his pocket, pulled out the flash drive, then held it appraisingly for a moment in his fingers.

"Out of curiosity, what's to prevent me just 'disappearing' once I give this to you?" asked Lane pointedly as he glanced back over at Dillinger.

"Because it serves no purpose to have you disappear," replied Dillinger. "If this plan is going to work, your continued cooperation has been deemed necessary."

"Necessary by whom?"

"By our 'mutual friends'," replied Dillinger. "The last thing any of us want is to raise any suspicions. If you were to disappear, a lot of uncomfortable attention might be paid to what you've been up to these last few weeks; none of us can afford anything going wrong at this point."

Letting out a long sigh, Dillinger leaned forward a bit in his seat.

"And speaking of things going as planned, were you able to get the information they requested?" asked Dillinger pointedly as he motioned at the flash drive in Lane's hand.

"Personnel assigned to our Special Projects Division are chosen as much for their paranoia as they are their technical expertise; convincing them to crack open their vault and allow even _me_ to access the recovered hardware was no small feat," began Lane as he slowly held the flash drive out to Dillinger. "But, I think this should be the information our benefactors requested."

"Well, why don't we find out?" replied Dillinger as he slowly leaned back into his chair and held the flash drive up over his shoulder.

With an utterly arctic chill running up along his spine, his skin instantly quite instantly feeling as though it were trying to crawl off of his very bones, Michael Lane watched as another figure emerged from the shadows.

With its metallic footfalls echoing a bit off the austere cinderblock walls, the being slowly stepped into the light, the whirr of servo motors resonating through the air as it slowly reached out and took hold of the flash drive offered up by Dillinger.

Lost in stunned silence, every hair on his body from head to toe standing on end, Lane watched as the being first held the flash drive up before its glowing red eyes, then inserted it into a port on its forearm.

"Dillinger, what the hell is going on?" muttered Lane as he continued to eye the metallic being, the light dancing across it's polished alloy 'bones'.

"Elevated heart rate and respiration, pupil dilation, increased perspiration and epinephrine levels; physiological indications of fear," stated the being as it focused those glowing red eyes on Lane. "Not exactly the reaction I would have expected from someone with such a renowned reputation for duplicity; surely you must have suspected you would be working with us."

"There's a difference between suspecting something, and actually seeing one of you here on Earth," replied Lane, his voice choking a bit on his dry throat.

"That presumes that your governments were actually able to oust us entirely from the planet in the first place," replied the being evenly.

"Are you saying that you've been here ever since the end of the A.I. Wars?" muttered Lane, an almost incredulous chuckle escaping him as he glanced over at the utterly unreadable Dillinger.

"Perhaps," replied the being somewhat cryptically, canting its head slightly as it continued to stare at Lane. "But it is just as likely that your military is not so fully in control of the space surrounding this planet as they've led the public to believe. Either way, does it matter?"

"I suppose not," conceded Lane, trying his best to put on a façade on nonchalance about the wholly unexpected situation.

"Was he able to obtain the information you need?" asked Dillinger pointedly, his tone and expression somewhat impatient.

Seeming to ignore Dillinger's irritation, the being seemed to bow its head slightly for a moment.

"Affirmative," it finally replied. "The information is surprisingly complete and in good condition considering the circumstances."

"It should be," stated Lane somewhat indignantly. "Special Projects spent decades and tens of millions of dollars going over practically every atom of the recovered hardware with an electron microscope in order to retrieve or reconstruct it."

"Question remains, will your compatriots be able to use the information for their part of the plan?" asked Dillinger as he looked rather blankly back over at Lane.

"Affirmative," replied the being evenly.

"Then we should begin making preparations for the next phase of operations," said Dillinger as he stood up and began pulling the chair he'd been sitting in back into the shadows.

"And what exactly _is_ the next phase?" asked Lane, his brow furrowing a bit. "Considering the lengths I've gone through to get you this information, is it too much to expect a little more information in return; what do you have planned?"

"The less you know for now, the less you might divulge if pressed," replied Dillinger as he slowly stepped back into the light. "Suffice is to say the Colonials and their technology will soon be taken care of and Aero-Tech will be free to reassume its position of preeminence in military procurement. I will contact you when things are ready with instructions on what we'll need from you."

Looking up into Dillinger's unreadable expression, Lane suddenly felt himself flush with no small amount of ire; he hadn't ascended to being CEO of one of the most successful multinationals in all of human history by being told what to do.

"Now wait just a damned minute," he sputtered.

But before another word left his lips, Lane's eyes went wide as Dillinger lifted some sort of weapon into view, leveling the barrel directly at his chest.

With a dull pop, a small projectile smacked into Lane's chest, a sharp, piercing pain instantly shooting through his consciousness as it did so. With his head very quickly beginning to swim with dizziness, Lane slowly looked down to see a small dart protruding from his chest.

Looking back up at Dillinger, Lane opened his mouth to speak, but very quickly felt every muscle in his body go slack, his eyes slowly rolling into the back of his head as everything went black.

As Michael Lane's limp body slumped back over on the bench, Dillinger couldn't help but grin a bit.

"Will your men be able to return him without raising suspicion?" asked Samson IL Three-Four-One.

"Child's play," smirked Dillinger as he stepped over and rather unceremoniously yanked the tranquilizer dart from the insensate Lane's chest.

"And what about the teams you've assembled: are they prepared to carry out their assignments?"

"The infiltration teams are still conducting dry runs, but so far they haven't run into anything security-wise that should be a problem," replied Dillinger as he slowly stepped back over. "Tactical teams are still getting familiar with the layouts for the assault portion of the operation, but we should be ready to proceed by the end of the week."

"Have any of your men indicated any reluctance to carrying out their assignments?"

"All the men under my command are InVitros," replied Dillinger simply. "Trust me, there's no love lost amongst them for the natural-borns; this is something that has been a long time in coming to them."

"And what about the Colonials?" asked Samson IL Three-Four-One, his every sensory system cued to detect any physiological signs of duplicity from Dillinger. "They had no hand in enslaving InVitros."

"No, but they've allied themselves with those who did, so there's no difference," replied Dillinger, his tone wholly dismissive. "My men will be ready to carry out their assignments; all we expect is for you Silicates to hold up your end of the bargain by ensuring us a place in the new order."

Had Samson IL Three-Four-One still possessed anything approximating lips, the remaining expression subroutines in his software might have stretched them into a wry grin. While Lane was clearly compelled and thus malleable because of his greed, Dillinger was motivated by the impression that he and his fellow InVitros would be spared the fate that awaited the rest of the carbonites on this miserable world.

It wasn't an unreasonable assumption for Dillinger to make; Samson IL Three-Four-One had been directed to promise him as much in order to secure his cooperation.

Unfortunately for Dillinger and his hapless compatriots, it was also a promise the Silicates had no intention of ever keeping. Dillinger and his men were a means to an end, nothing more; they had already been deemed dispensable once their usefulness had come to an end.

Without another word, Dillinger stepped over to the large metal door obscured in the shadows and thumped heavily upon it with his fist. In response, the door opened and two men stepped in, a gentle nod of the head from Dillinger being all they needed to prompt them to make their way over to the insensate Lane, lift him from the bench, and quickly make their way back out of the room with him.

"Getting Lane back to his residence won't be difficult, but now that you have the information you came for, how do you plan on getting it off world?" asked Dillinger as he slowly looked over at Samson IL Three-Four-One. "Granted, inserting you onto Earth under the guise of a meteor impact was a clever idea, but it was also a one-way trip; there's no way you'll be able to commandeer a ship and break orbit without being intercepted."

"I don't need to leave in order to get this information off planet," replied Samson IL Three-Four-One simply.

"That's right, I've heard those new bodies of yours had some improved radio gear," muttered Dillinger as he seemed to give Samson IL Three-Four-One somewhat of a visual once-over. "Trouble is, no matter how good that gear is the planetary surveillance network will be able to detect and triangulate any transmission you try and send."

"True, but it is also of no consequence," replied Samson IL Three-Four-One coolly. "The only thing you need to concern yourself with now is ensuring that your men are ready to move when we order it."

"Very well," sighed Dillinger, his biometric readings indicating he was not pleased with the response he'd been given, but nevertheless, very wisely opting to not press the issue as he turned and left the room.

As Dillinger quickly made his way off along the dimly lit corridor beyond the door, Samson IL Three-Four-One began accessing several of his internal systems and subroutines. In a matter of seconds, his built-in burst transmitter had been configured to relay the information he'd obtained from Lane.

To be sure, Dillinger was correct; once Samson IL Three-Four-One sent the information, Earth military forces would very quickly be able to triangulate the source. Whether they would send a tactical team to investigate or merely bombard the area either from orbit or with aircraft made little difference; what mattered most was that the information would get off world.

As his hyper-acute auditory sensors detected the departure of Dillinger's vehicles, Samson IL Three-Four-One engaged its built-in burst transmitter. After a few short minutes, the entire compressed data stream he had compiled from the information provided by Lane was away. Confident that it had successfully completed its mission, Samson IL Three-Four-One experienced no hesitation as it initiated a critical overload of its own Sewell fuel power cells.

Within moments, the bare cinderblock room was engulfed in a massive detonation, the several tons of surface soil and reinforced concrete above the room rapidly collapsing in upon the buckled void, quickly burying the miniscule remnants of the Samson IL Three-Four-One's utterly shattered body.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlestar <strong>_**Pacifica  
><strong>_**Earth Orbit**

"Commander on deck," snapped Lieutenant Jinara Cole, her tone echoing a bit through the sparsely manned CIC.

Shaking his head ever so slightly, Adrian Kelso grinned as he made his way over towards the center table.

"How are you this morning, sir?" asked Cole as Adrian stepped up to the center plot table.

"Oh, not too bad," he replied through a long breath.

"And how are things going with the settlement on the surface, sir?"

"Going ahead nicely, I suppose," muttered Adrian, nodding his head slightly as he slowly cast his eyes up towards the array of DRADIS displays overhead. "Still a few bumps to iron out, but that's to be expected. Anything new to report here?"

"Nothing significant, sir; we're maintaining our surveillance patrol," began Cole dutifully as reached out towards him with the ship's logbook. "Our Raptor pickets launched a couple hours ago, but so far, no sign of enemy activity anywhere in range."

As he gently took hold of the proffered logbook, Adrian Kelso's eyes casually looked around at the CIC. In contrast to the last several months, the CIC now seemed almost empty. With most of his old veteran crew now having moved down to the surface to settle with the others, the only ones still aboard the _Pacifica_ were the comparative handful of personnel assigned to man her while she performed her new duties as a surveillance platform.

Letting out a slow sigh, Kelso returned his attention to the logbook, giving the last couple entries only a casual glance.

"Have most of the new crew members settled in?" he asked evenly as he looked back over to Cole.

"So far they seem to be adjusting well, sir," replied Cole, a slight smirk on her face. "Since we only have about six-hundred left aboard, a good number have expressed little short of elation at the idea of having bunk spaces pretty much to themselves."

"She does seem a bit empty these days, doesn't she?" replied Kelso, again casually looking around at the significant number of empty stations around the CIC.

"Her crew is fewer, sir, but she still has a mission," replied Cole as she likewise looked out around the CIC, a surprising amount of pride evident in her tone.

Letting out a sigh, Kelso slowly looked back over at Cole.

It would be an understatement to say that she had matured these last several months, both as a person and as an officer. Far from the comparatively fresh-faced child she had been when they'd first met in the shadow of the imposing memorial down on the hangar deck so many months ago, under the almost loving tutelage of the old veterans, himself included, Adrian Kelso had witnessed Jinara Cole grow dramatically in both self-confidence and ability.

For everything that had been thrown at her since that first meeting, she had very much become an equal for her grandmother in fortitude if not deed.

"Is something wrong, Commander?" asked Cole, the sincere concern in her tone prompting Kelso back out of his musing.

"Wrong, no," smiled Kelso, his gaze hesitantly passing once more around the CIC. "In fact, there are some things that just couldn't be more 'right'."

Canting her head slightly, her expression more than a touch quizzical as she looked at him from across the main plot table, Cole watched as Adrian Kelso slowly reached inside his uniform tunic. A moment later, he pulled a lone sheet of paper and unfolded it as he reached down with his other hand, picked up the handset on the side of the plot table, and toggled the switch for the One-MC.

"Attention all hands, this is Adrian Kelso," he began evenly. "It is often said that a warship is more than just the sum of her parts; she is the sum of her history as well, her character the collective will of the men and women who crew her. But while _Pacifica_ no longer serves as a warship, she still has a mission, one which I have the utmost confidence each and every one of you will continue to execute with the same tenacity, conviction and dedication as those who have walked her decks before you."

Pausing, Adrian Kelso then locked the transmit button on the handset open and slowly set it down on the plot table. Then, holding the long sheet of paper up before his eyes, he took a deep, steadying breath, then looked around once more at the small collection of faces watching him intently from around the CIC.

"Attention to orders," he began, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he slowly came to attention. "By order of President Paul Bess, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and Commander Sean Kelso, Commanding Officer, Colonial Military Forces, I stand relieved of duty as Commanding Officer, Battlestar _Pacifica_."

As the words left his mouth, everyone in the CIC, most especially Jinara Cole, seemed to be taken aback in stunned silence. Stepping ever so slightly closer to the plot table, Cole opened her mouth, intent on offering up some form of protest when Adrian Kelso slowly lowered the page from his view and looked directly across into the young woman's eyes.

"Furthermore," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "At this time, I do hereby turn over command of the _Pacifica_ to Jinara Cole, who by order of these same presiding authorities, in recognition for her steadfast devotion to duty and exemplary conduct in a time of critical emergency is hereby meritoriously promoted to the rank of Captain in the Colonial Fleet."

At hearing those words, Jinara Cole's expression emptied of everything but stunned amazement as she continued to hold Adrian Kelso's gaze across the plot table.

Then, reaching out, his hand trembling ever so slightly, Adrian Kelso slowly set the page down beside the logbook as he retrieved the handset from the tabletop and lifted it to back his ear.

"That is all," he said simply, returning the handset to its place a moment later, giving it an almost loving pat as he seated in firmly on the side of the plot table.

As he looked back up into Jinara Cole's eyes, her expression still one of utter astonishment, the young woman began shaking her head ever so slightly

"They relieved you of command, sir?" she whispered, the words themselves almost seeming to pain her as they passed her lips.

"No, Jinara, I _asked_ to be relieved," he said simply as he reached up, pulled a pen from his pocket, and quickly jotted down a notation in the ship's log. "One of the hardest things to accept in this mortal life is that everything has its time; for me, my time here is past."

Then, looking back across to Cole, Kelso made a very deliberate action of holding both the paper and the logbook out to her across the plot table.

"The _Pacifica_ is your ship now, _Captain_ Cole," he said, the slightest hint of grin on his face even as a few subtle tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. "And frankly, I can't think of anyone with whom she'd be in better hands."

Slowly reaching out, Jinara Cole's hand took hold of the page and logbook, the profound responsibility engendered in the two objects magnifying the significance of the act far beyond proportion, both items feeling almost leaden to her as she gently set them down on the surface of the plot table.

As her own gaze slowly fell upon the page resting on top of the logbook, her eyes playing across the simple text that confirmed her promotion and assignment to command of _Pacifica_, Jinara Cole hesitated, opened her mouth as if to say something, but found no words.

So palpable was the tension at that moment that both Jinara Cole and Adrian Kelso were both visibly startled when a shrill alarm echoed out from the DRADIS display overhead.

"Report, Petty Officer Graneur," snapped Cole, barely able to look away from Kelso even as the moment called for her attention to be elsewhere.

"Wireless monitor systems are detecting a transmission, ma'am," snapped Graneur as his hands danced feverishly across the communications console. "Whatever it is, it's not coming in over standard IFOR or Colonial channels."

"An enemy transmission?" asked Cole, her face contorting somewhat as she glanced over at Granuer.

"Looks like it may be, ma'am," replied Graneur, nodding his head slightly as he looked up from the console. "Whatever the transmission is, it's heavily encrypted but coming in over a bandwidth normally used by Silicates."

"Triangulate the source of that transmission right now, Petty Officer," snapped Cole as she reflexively glanced up at the DRADIS display overhead.

"Yes, ma'am."

As Graneur set to work locating the source of the transmission, Cole's eyes slowly settled back in on Adrian Kelso as he stood silent opposite of her at the plot table. While it was clear from the pensive expression on his face that his thoughts were racing over the consequential severity of their picking up a possible enemy transmission, it was also clear that he was quite deliberately holding his tongue at that moment.

To be sure, he could still technically assume command; the proverbial ink giving Cole command of _Pacifica_ hadn't yet dried. But beneath his pensiveness, there was a subtle imperative that she alone was able to see in his eyes at that moment.

_Take_ command.

Taking a very deep, deliberate breath, Cole reached down and snatched up the handset on her side of the plot table.

"This is the CO, set Condition Two throughout the ship," snapped Cole, her tone filling with a firm sense of authority that belied the butterflies fluttering about in her stomach. "All hands stand-to DC stations, prepare for possible emergency evasive maneuvers."

As the overhead alarm sounded throughout CIC in response to her order, Cole placed her handset back in its place and then very consciously settled her attention back in on Petty Officer Graneur.

"Do we have an origin for the transmission yet, Petty Officer Graneur?"

"Definitely originated from the surface of the planet, ma'am," replied Graneur, his face contorting a bit as he continued to absorb whatever data was scrolling across his screen. "Looks like the north-western region of the lesser continental mass…"

His voice abruptly trailing off, Graneur reached up and cupped his hand over the earpiece of his headset.

"Flash traffic from IFOR, ma'am; they've also picked up the transmission," called Graneur as he looked over to Cole. "They're saying it originated from a region known as 'Nevada' and are sending ground teams to investigate."

"Very well," muttered Cole, her mind pausing to digest the situation for a moment. "Petty Officer Graneur, do we have any indication where the transmission was being _directed_?"

Before Graneur had a chance to answer, the DRADIS display overhead let go with another piercing audible alarm.

"DRADIS relay from Raptor Three-One-One," burst Graneur. "Looks like they've picked up an identified bird on their radiological systems loitering out near the moon."

"Advise IFOR and _Galactica_, see if there are any birds available for an intercept," snapped Cole as the DRADIS relay from the Raptor resolved onto the screen overhead and highlighted the unknown craft that had been picked up.

"Gods dammit, they're rabbiting," snapped Lieutenant Lee as his hands reached out and adjusted a few controls on his panel.

"Copy that," grunted Lieutenant Cooper as he reached over and throttled up the Raptor.

"What the frak are you doing?" burst Lee as his ears caught the sound of the engines revving up even through his helmet. "You're going to pursue?"

"Might as well," replied Cooper as he banked into a hard left turn towards the contact they'd picked up. "We're the only ones in range at the moment."

"But we have no ordnance," snapped Lee as he popped up from the rear ECO panel and clawed his way towards the forward co-pilot seat.

"Yeah, but he might not know that," countered Cooper as he pointed the Raptor's nose directly at the ship that had all but popped up from the sickly gray surface of Earth's only natural satellite. "If we can keep this bastard busy long enough, maybe someone with a missile can get over here and put it up his ass before he gets away."

"Remind me to kick your ass later for pulling a stunt like this," grunted Lee as he dropped down into the second seat.

"Noted," smirked Cooper. "Now hurry up and strap in."

As he stood there, silent, his attention firmly locked on the DRADIS displays overhead, Adrian Kelso felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Raptor Three-One-One bank in towards the unknown contact.

"My gods," muttered Cole, her voice barely a whisper as she too kept her eyes firmly on the screen overhead. "They're moving to intercept."

"They generally don't put timid people in the cockpit," sighed Kelso, smirking slightly as he leaned in a bit more over the plot table.

"But they don't have anything with which to engage the contact," said Cole as she gently shook her head.

"Maybe not, but sometimes a bluff can be as decisive as a full spread of missiles," countered Kelso, not for the first time impressed at the audacity of the Raptor crew. "Don't count them out of the fight just yet."

"Graneur," snapped Cole, her voice echoing out a bit through the sparsely manned CIC. "Any word from IFOR or _Galactica_ on available interceptors?"

"IFOR reports they're vectoring in three flights, _Galactica_ two," replied Graneur. "Estimated time to first intercept; six minutes."

"Look out, he's coming around," snapped Lee, his eyes locked on the DRADIS display at the center of the console.

"I see it," burst Cooper as he yanked the Raptor into a hard banking turn to the right.

"Missiles in the air!" burst Lee as an alert alarm began blaring out from the console. "Looks like they have two off the rails, inbound, thirty-seven seconds out."

"Frak!"

With a hard grunt against the G-forces suddenly wracking his body, Cooper violently reversed his turn, slamming the throttles full open as he nosed the Raptor in towards the monochromatically ominous surface of the nearby moon.

"If you're planning to land, you might want to, I don't know, ease off the throttles a bit," snapped Lee as his eyes went wide at the rapidly decreasing range reading between the Raptor and the planetoid beyond.

"Everyone's a side-seat driver," muttered Cooper sardonically. "Where are those missiles?"

"Twenty-seven seconds aft," replied Lee as he returned his attention to the DRADIS display.

"Prepare a full spread of countermeasures; chaff and jiggers," snapped Cooper as he cast a momentary glance at the two missiles careening in from behind on DRADIS. "When I pull up, I want you to pop'em, see if we can muck up the target lock."

"Copy that," replied Lee as his gloved hands darted out towards the panel. "Countermeasures ready. I don't suppose you have a Plan-B just in case?"

"Working on it."

"Wonderful; impact in seventeen seconds, no rush."

Shaking his head slightly, Cooper didn't reply to the quip; quite simply, he didn't have time.

With the sight of the surface of Earth's moon all but encompassing everything in his view, Cooper slowly began to pull back on the control stick, leveling out from the near-suicidal dive. As the curved horizon slowly came back into view, the Raptor now skimming along barely a full meter above the surface, Cooper suddenly rolled the ship over a full one-hundred and eighty degrees. As the sight of the moon's surface, now above them, continued to race by at an utterly dizzying pace, Cooper very deliberately held his stick-hand rock-solid as he cast a momentary glance over at DRADIS.

With an audible smack echoing out through the cockpit, both Cooper and Lee, thoroughly startled, looked up to see an object laid out across the exterior of the canopy.

"Whoa!" burst Lee as he watched the rectangular object with a blue square and red and white stripes fall away. "What the frak was that, a _flag_?

"Hope it wasn't important," burst Cooper as he snapped his attention back to DRADIS.

"Ten seconds from impact!" shouted Lee, all but ignoring the rocks and boulders still rushing by just above the canopy.

"Pop'em!" burst Cooper.

Without any reply, Lee's gloved hand darted out to the console.

With a series of dull thuds reverberating through the hull of the Raptor, the inventory readout flashed out a confirmation that the countermeasures had been launched.

With his hand still firmly holding the racing Raptor on a straight-line course, Cooper watched as the electronic pulse signature of the jiggers flared to life on DRADIS directly in front of the closing missiles.

Then, to their supreme satisfaction and relief, Cooper and Lee watched as the two missiles, both mere second away from ripping their Raptor apart, apparently lost their lock and nosed over, slamming headlong into the moon's surface an instant later.

"Thank the gods," burst Lee as he thumped a fist against the side of the cockpit.

"Oh, sure, no thanks for me," snorted Cooper as he pushed forward on the control stick, the Raptor responding immediately by 'diving' away from the moon's gray surface. "Where's our bandit?"

"Putting some serious distance between us and them at one-three-one carom zero-niner-niner," replied Lee evenly.

"Oh, you're not getting away that easy, motherfrakker," growled Cooper as he again pulled the nose of the Raptor around into a tight turn.

"We're not going to be able to chase him down in a Raptor," countered Lee flatly.

"Won't know unless I try…" began Cooper, his voice trailing off as another alarm echoed out from the panel.

"Picking up marked rise in energy emissions from the contact," snapped Lee, the tone of his voice lost in bewilderment. "Wait, spatial distortions? We shouldn't be picking anything like that unless…"

"Frak!" burst Cooper as he reflexively looked out past the canopy. "_Pacifica_, Raptor Three-One-One, be advised, unknown contact is spooling up for an FTL jump."

"Spatial distortions confirmed!" shouted the young Ensign who'd only moments before slipped into place at the Tactical Operations console.

"Where the hell did the enemy get FTL technology?" muttered Adrian Kelso as he continued to eye the contact on the screens overhead.

"Gods dammit, we can't let it get away," snapped Cole as she kept a firm gaze on the DRADIS displays overhead. "Where are those interceptors?"

"Too far away, Captain," replied Graneur, his hand still firmly cupped over the headset earpiece as he gently shook his head.

"He's right, Captain," added the Ensign. "If this is an FTL spool, the contact will be away before any fighters can intercept."

"Helm, come around to course zero-eight-six carom one-one-three, engines all ahead full," snapped Cole, her tone utterly absent of hesitation.

"Aye, Captain, coming around to zero-eight-six carom one-one-three," replied the young woman at the helm, her own tone somewhat less certain.

"What are you doing?" muttered Kelso, his voice barely a whisper as he leaned in over the plot table.

"We can't let that ship get away," replied Cole, her eyes never leaving the displays overhead. "Now, it might be able to outrun a Raptor, but we might still be able to chase it down with the _Pacifica_."

In spite of his hitherto unqualified confidence in Jinara Cole, at that moment, even Adrian Kelso was surprised by the utter lack of vacillation present in the young woman's voice.

Her confidence aside, however, Adrian Kelso was about to remind her of the complete lack of weaponry aboard _Pacifica_ when the full meaning underlying her decision to turn the venerable Battlestar in pursuit fell upon him like a ton of bricks.

She hadn't forgotten the ship was unarmed; she intended to use _Pacifica_ to _ram_ the contact.

As that realization landed like a stone in the pit of his stomach, Adrian Kelso found himself floundering a bit at the sheer audacity of her decision. But as his eyes darted once more to the screens overhead, Adrian Kelso felt his skin grow icy cold, a very stark realization hitting him with palpable clarity; Cole was _right_.

With no fighters close enough to intercept the contact, the only viable option remaining to prevent its escape was to use the _Pacifica_ herself; like swatting a bug with a hammer, damagingly brutal but effective.

But even as the _Pacifica_ came about and aligned herself for the chase, the full propulsive might of her engines driving the venerable warhorse into a headlong charge, the contact suddenly winked out of existence from the screens overhead.

Letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, Adrian Kelso's shoulders slumped a bit as he slowly looked across the plot table to Cole.

For her part, Cole simply stood there for a moment, her eyes still locked on DRADIS.

"Report," said Cole simply, her eyes still not leaving the now-empty screen.

"Contact appears to have jumped away, Captain," replied the Ensign at Tac-Ops. "Negative DRADIS contact, no signature on rad-detection systems."

"Message from Raptor Three-One-One, Captain," called Graneur an instant later. "They confirm; contact has jumped away."

Letting out a long, somewhat dejected sigh, Captain Jinara Cole's eyes slowly fell away from the screens overhead, her head shaking slightly as she met Adrian Kelso's gaze.

"This isn't good," she muttered.


	15. A Gathering Storm

**Ross Residence  
><strong>**Baywood, Louisiana**

Gently closing his eyes to the bright orange and yellow hues of the coming sunset filtering in through trees at the edge of his property, Admiral Glen van Ross leaned back in his simple rocking chair, his bare feet propped up on the porch rail as he slowly brought the chilled long-neck to his lips.

All but savoring the bitter-sweet taste of the ale as it slid past his tongue and snaked its way down his throat with gentle gulps, Ross continued to tilt the bottle till the entirety of its contents had been emptied into his gullet.

Letting out a satisfied sigh, Ross opened his eyes and appraised the empty bottle for a moment before slowly lowering it down alongside the other half-dozen empties resting at the left side of his chair.

Then, with an utterly fulfilled grin on his face, Ross set off again on another rambling blues riff, strumming away on his beloved guitar Rosalyn, the ebb and flow of his contentment in that moment finding expression in the gentle vibration of the strings, his toes rhythmically tapping against the sky itself.

For a moment, he could almost convince himself that he was a man with not a single care in the world.

To be sure, high in orbit, lost beyond the puffy clouds overhead, the _Saratoga_ was being prepared to once again wade back into the brutal maelstrom of the war. Without a doubt, when she did so, he too would be going back into harm's way with her.

But right here, right now, all that mattered was that Rosalyn was tuned and he still had half a case of Bon Temps long-necks resting in the ice bucket to his right.

Opening his eyes once more to the setting sun as it continued to sink below the horizon, his fingers continued to dance along the taut strings, his heart and soul dancing right along with them.

With a thoroughly pleased smile all but glued to his face, Ross continued to strum away all his troubles, giving not the least bit of attention to the vehicle he heard ambling its way up the gravel driveway off to the side of the house.

With his mind swimming within the musical notes and mild intoxication, he dismissed it out of mind as likely just being his wife returning home. No doubt she'd have a word or two to say about how much beer he'd had, not to mention taking a moment to reiterate her long-suffering pet-peeve over his being out on the porch in little more than boxers and a tank-top.

Smirking slightly at the anticipation of these comparatively delightful little pieces of marital normalcy, Ross picked up the tempo of his strumming.

"Admiral Ross?"

His heart skipping a bit at the wholly unexpected voice, Ross, more than a touch startled, nearly dropped his beloved Rosalyn, his panicked attempts to prevent as much causing him to flail wildly for a moment, an errant kick of his leg sending the collection of empty bottles beside his chair clanking, tumbling and rolling off across the porch like a collection of toppled bowling pins.

Taking a moment to collect himself, his feet once more firmly in contact with the worn wooden planks of the porch, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly in annoyance, Ross continued to clutch Rosalyn to his chest as he slowly looked down towards the end of the porch, his eyes little short of a glare.

"Just what the _hell_ are you doing here, Ty?" grumbled Ross as he slowly loosened his death-hug of Rosalyn.

"Sorry, Admiral," began Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen as he slowly pulled his vintage aviator sunglasses away from his eyes, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. "I tried to call first, but your cell kept going straight to voice-mail."

"That's because I turned the damned thing _off_," growled Ross as he casually looked over at the strewn collection of empties now spread out across the deck.

Then, quite deliberately, Ross returned his attention to McQueen.

"Why are you here?" asked Ross directly, his eyes narrowing a bit. "Aren't you supposed to be coordinating the recert of the _Saratoga_'s airwing?"

"We're done, actually," replied McQueen as he casually motioned over at the empty bench beside Ross. "Mind if I sit down, Admiral?"

Without a word, Ross let out a slight snort as he motioned his head over towards the bench.

Sliding his sunglasses into the pocket of his short-sleeve shirt, McQueen reached up and casually wiped at the thin film of perspiration on his forehead.

"Bit humid out this evening," he said as he made his way up the stairs and onto the porch.

"If you don't like the weather, you're more than welcome to make your way back out to Miramar," muttered Ross as he watched McQueen slowly lower himself onto the bench.

"Nellis, actually," replied McQueen as he casually eyed the bucket of iced longnecks. "With most of the squadrons reformed, I've had them concentrating on force-on-force scenarios. One thing is for sure, those new Raven fighters the Air Force has are giving our old Hammerheads a run for their money; wouldn't mind having a few of them along when we push back into enemy space."

"Well, with the _Daedalus_ and _Prometheus_ nearing completion, I suppose it's possible we'll have some of them riding shotgun once we to retake the offensive," sighed Ross as he did his best to settle back into the comfort of his rocking chair.

"Still find it strange to think of the _Air_ Force having _warships_ of their own," smirked McQueen as he let out a long sigh.

"Well, their brass _is_ lobbying pretty hard to have it formally amended to _Aerospace_ Force," said Ross as he slowly brought Rosalyn back up and gently checked her tuning. "Maybe they're just tired of having to hitch a ride aboard Navy carriers whenever they need to get somewhere; as a Marine, I'm sure you can sympathize, Colonel."

"Marines have been hitching rides on Navy ships since seventeen-seventy-five; why would I argue with tradition, sir?" replied McQueen evenly. "Besides, Navy serves good chow."

Chuckling a bit, Ross shook his head slightly as he looked back over at McQueen.

"I take it you flew into Baton Rouge?"

"Barksdale Air Base, actually," replied McQueen as he eye once again wandered over to the bucket of sweating bottles. "Wrangled a seat on a supply bird out from the West coast, rented a car for the rest of the trip here."

"Any chance you came all this way just to get in a bit of fishing?" asked Ross, his eyebrow arching a bit as he caught sight of McQueen eyeing his collection of favorite local microbrew.

"No, sir, I just came to give my Commanding Officer a report of the status of his airwing," replied McQueen evenly. "I would have given it over the phone but…"

With that, McQueen offered only a mild shrug as he grinned over at Ross.

Smirking slightly himself, Ross somewhat half-heartedly reached down and lifted one of the bottles from the bucket, and with the slightest bit of reluctance offered it over to McQueen.

With a gentle nod of appreciation, McQueen took hold of the bottle, the chilled beads of moisture on the outside running off along his fingers as he gripped it, popped the top, then took the first tentative sip.

"That's a good amber," muttered McQueen as he held the bottle appraisingly for a moment.

"First one's free, the next will cost you," smirked Ross as he retrieved another for himself.

"Then I'd better make this one last," grinned McQueen as he took another small sip.

Glancing back over at McQueen, Ross eyed the Colonel for a moment.

"Since social calls have never been your particular forte, I imagine you have some news," muttered Ross as he gently popped the top on his own bottle.

Meeting the Admiral's gaze, McQueen slowly began to nod.

"The word finally came down about Damphousse," sighed McQueen as he absently ran his finger through the sweat on the outside of his bottle.

"Not good, I take it?"

"The docs say the head trauma she sustained when she and Vansen were shot down has affected her visual cortex and vestibular activity," sighed McQueen as he looked back over at Ross. "Under the circumstances, there's no way she'll be able to return to flight status; Fifth Wing is cutting her separation orders as we speak."

Letting out a long sigh, Ross slowly brought his fresh bottle to his lips. To be sure, for an Admiral who was in charge of literally tens of thousands of lives, an entire fleet of ships, it _was_ disproportionate with his level of responsibility to be concerned about the fate of one lone pilot.

But then again, Vanessa Damphousse was a bit more than 'just another pilot'; like the rest of the Five-Eight, she'd had the peculiar distinction of being on Ross' shortlist when the worst of situations called for the best of operators.

"How are the rest of the Five-Eight handling the news?" asked Ross evenly.

"Well, I've had them busy with flight-ops most of the week," replied McQueen evenly. "But since they've been granted a seventy-two this weekend, I'd imagine they'll have some time to reflect on it a bit more."

"And how is Vansen readjusting?"

"That could still pose a problem," sighed McQueen as he took another gentle sip. "So far her in-cockpit performance has been above expectation, but she's still reluctant to pick up the reigns of command of the Five-Eight."

"With less time in grade than Vansen, West won't be able to remain in charge, Ty, you know that," countered Ross evenly as he glanced over at McQueen. "Eventually someone over at Fifth Wing is going to take note of the situation; if Vansen doesn't step up, someone over there is going to assign a new squadron CO."

"I understand fully, Admiral," nodded McQueen. "In fact, Fifth Wing S-One already sent over the jacket for a possible replacement if Vansen doesn't get her head straight; a Major Ariel Hyland."

"What do you know about her?"

"I haven't had an opportunity to speak with her personally yet," began McQueen as he took another tentative sip from the bottle. "From her file, she seems to be squared away, a real up-and-comer in the command structure, a degree from Colorado State. Fit-reps from her previous postings indicate she's capable but calculating, some might even say cavalier when it comes to her handling of subordinates."

"A career-minded, by-the-book operator might not make a very good task-master for a bunch of rebels and misfits," smirked Ross as he took another deep drag from his own bottle.

"Which is why I'm hoping Vansen gets her head straight soon," said McQueen as he looked back over at Ross. "Hawkes alone could find himself in hack in very short order under someone like Hyland, if not busted all the way back down to butter-bar again."

"Well, I'll do what I can to stall Fifth Wing," began Ross as he met McQueen's gaze. "But if Shane can't take back the reigns from West, they'll have to learn to live with Hyland."

"Understood, sir…" began McQueen, his voice trailing off as a loud chime echoed out through the air.

Letting out a long, almost annoyed sigh, McQueen slowly reached up and pulled the phone from his pocket.

"Should have turned yours off too, Ty," smirked Ross as he watched McQueen eye the caller-ID screen.

"I don't think they'd appreciate it," muttered McQueen as he held the phone up so Ross could read the caller-ID as well.

HQMC; Headquarters Marine Corps.

"Better answer," muttered Ross, a dubious scowl creasing his features.

Quickly tapping the icon to accept the call, McQueen lifted the phone to his ear.

"Colonel McQueen," he said simply.

For a few moments, Ross simply sat there staring at McQueen, taking another gentle sip from his beer, somewhat wary that the next sip might very well be his last for a very long time.

"Understood, General," stated McQueen after several moments. "Have I had contact with Admiral Ross?"

Pausing to look over into Ross's eyes, he watched as the Admiral rolled his own eyes somewhat.

"Actually, sir, I'm here with him now," continued McQueen a moment later. "Yes, sir. Understood, sir, I'll let him know. Yes, sir."

With that, McQueen slowly let the phone fall away from his ear, very deliberately tapping the icon that ended the call.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to be able to remain in my tank-top and boxers?" muttered Ross as he noted the somewhat blank expression on McQueen's face.

"There's an ISSCV waiting for us over at Barksdale," began McQueen as he slowly slipped the phone back into his pocket and set the half-emptied bottle down on the bench. "They have orders to take us to DC; General Ranford's direct orders."

"I take it he's not calling us to the Pentagon to partake in the summer weather," muttered Ross as he let out a long, resigned sigh.

"No, Admiral," replied McQueen as he slowly stood up from the bench. "He's not."

* * *

><p><strong>Destiny Casino<br>****Las Vegas, Nevada**

"To 'Phousse!" shouted the half-inebriated Hawkes with gusto as he lifted the shot glass in his hand high into the air.

Clustered around the table, the other members of the vaunted Fifty-Eighth Squadron, United States Marine Corps, themselves each lost within their own varying states of intoxication likewise lifted their glasses high into the air, the gentle clanking of glass-on-glass echoing out a bit even as the slightly off-key singer at the stage cast a somewhat sour glance their direction.

As each of them brought their glasses back down, West, Hawkes, Wang, Vansen and Damphousse slammed down their shots.

For a moment, the five of them simply sat there, their expressions ranging wildly from slightly somber in Vansen's case to Wang's clear wide-eyed surprise, a slight shiver wending its way through his muscles at the sensation of the potent liquor snaking its way down his throat.

"Have you made any plans yet, Vanessa?" asked West, coughing a bit as the alcohol burned its way down his throat.

"Well, actually, the VA transition rep has been pretty helpful," smirked Damphousse, not quite able to look up to meet the collective gaze of the others around the table as she gently played with her empty shot glass. "She put me in touch with someone who's already lined up a job for me on the outside."

"Really?" sputtered Hawkes as he made a casual glance around, a somewhat clumsy wave of the hand his half-hearted attempt to get a waitresses' attention. "The way you always talked, I figured you'd go to work with your Dad at San Onofre."

"I thought about it, but this opportunity will let me contribute a bit to the war even if I can't be out there with you guys anymore," replied Damphousse as she glanced over and noted the somewhat sullen look on Vansen's face.

"So, are you gonna keep us in suspense or are you gonna spill?" asked Wang flatly.

"Well, as soon as my discharge is finalized I'll be heading up to Washington state," began Damphousse as she returned her attention to the thin film of liquor that had accumulated at the bottom of her shot glance, gently dipping her finger into it a moment later. "Boeing is snatching up just about anyone they can find with an aerospace engineering or physics background to help with their reverse engineering project on the Colonial engine technology; my flight training even earned me a hiring bonus."

Intoxicated as they were, the other members of the Five-Eight nevertheless all perked up a bit.

"Damn, 'Phousse, that sounds like one hell-of-a cherry assignment," grinned Wang as he half-lifted his glass back into the air, remembering it was empty part-way through the motion.

"I just hope it helps end this war and gets the rest of you home safe," countered Damphousse, her voice choking a bit, a fact that was apparently not lost on her as she gently shook her own head a moment later. "Sorry, I just _hate_ that I'm not going to be out there with you guys anymore."

"Don't count yourself out yet, 'Phousse," offered West. "If you're able to help replicate those Faster-Than-Light drives the Colonials use, you'll not only be helping us, but everyone else still out there on the line."

"Still can't help but feel like I'm goldbricking," shrugged Damphousse as she wiped at the tears welling up in the corner of her eye.

As an uncomfortable silence fell over the group, the waitress finally stepped back up and unloaded another round of shots in front of them.

As West reached down and began to fumble about in his pockets for some cash, Vansen glanced over and seemed to notice him floundering a bit in the effort.

"Here," she finally huffed, quickly producing a small stack of bills as she did so. "This round and the next are on me."

As the waitress took the cash offered up by Vansen and stepped away, Hawkes very rapidly slid the round of shots out to everyone around the table.

As each of the members of the Five-Eight clasped their hands once more around the brimming shots before them, Vansen quickly held hers high up in the air.

"To Vanessa Damphousse; to the Fifty-Eighth Squadron; and to all the fighting men and women of the USS _Saratoga_," she announced loudly. "May we all soon know a world once again at peace."

With that, Wang, Hawkes, West, Vansen and Damphousse clanked their glasses together, and without another word, downed the shots.

As each of them braced themselves against the after-effects of slamming down the hard liquor, they gave hardly any notice to the group of ten men quickly cutting their way through the lounge towards their table.

"Hey, did I just hear you guys correctly?" asked one of the men as he stepped up, the vaguely unfocused look in his eyes clearly indicating that he had imbibed more than his own fair share of alcohol. "Did you all just say you're from the _Saratoga_?"

"Yeah we did," answered Hawkes flatly as he glowered back over at the man.

"Were you guys with her when she met up with those Colonials?"

"You could say that," muttered West, eyeing the group somewhat warily.

"What's this about, pal?" interjected Hawkes as he slowly looked around at the other members of the group.

"Oh, nothing," replied the man, a somewhat derisive snort escaping him. "I was just wondering what it felt like to be a _traitor_ to your own world."

"A traitor?" sputtered Hawkes, his tone rapidly devolving into little more than a growl. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about those Colonials," replied another man in the group as he pointed around at the other men in the group. "Two years now we've had our asses out there on the line fighting back the Chigs and you guys, _you_ just led those so-called 'people' straight here to Earth, practically helped roll out a fucking red carpet for them."

In spite of the significant number of drinks they'd had, it was not lost upon the members of the Five-Eight that the group of men had begun to slowly encircle their table; one hardly needed two years of combat under their belt to understand that something very bad was brewing.

"In case you didn't notice, pal, they kicked the crap out of that Chiggy fleet that was hovering over this planet a few weeks back," snorted West as he slowly began sliding his chair back from the table.

"Still doesn't mean they're welcome here," countered the second man venomously. "In fact, since you seem to be so in love with them, I don't think you're very welcome here either."

"Look, buddy," began Vansen, her eyes narrowing a bit as she gently slid her chair back from the table and stood up. "I don't know what you're problem is, but we're just here to say goodbye to a good friend, so if you're looking for trouble, it'd be better if you took a walk..."

"Shut the fuck up, bitch," snapped the first man angrily as he pointed a very accusatorial finger directly at Vansen. "I've lost a hell-of-a lot of good friends fighting the Chigs..."

"And so have we," burst West as he practically vaulted to his feet, standing as close to nose-to-nose as he could considering the veritable shaved-ape was a good four inches taller than he was. "Now, you can either turn and _walk_ away right now and let us say good-bye to our friend in peace, or, you can _hobble_ away with my chair half-way up your _ass_."

"Is that right?" sneered the apeman as he took half a step closer to West, his admittedly broad chest bumping up against Nathan.

At that, Wang quickly stepped over and more-or-less pushed himself in between West and the apeman.

"Whoa, things here are getting just a bit too intense right now," muttered Wang as he very deliberately pushed West back a step.

Taking a very slow breath, Wang gave West's shoulder a gentle pat and then turned back to look the apeman directly in the eye.

"Look you guys, why don't you just let us finish our drinks?" continued Wang as he held his hands up in a somewhat conciliatory manner. "Hell, I'll even spring for a round of shots for you guys too, how's that sound?"

"We don't want your damned drinks," snapped the apeman. "What we want is for you all to leave our bar."

"Funny, I don't see a sign anywhere that says 'you must be this butt-ugly to drink here'," chuckled Hawkes as he glared around at each of the men surrounding the Five-Eight's table.

With that, Wang watched as the apeman's bloodshot eyes widened still further, Hawkes' quip clearly doing little more than stoke his already considerable drunken ire.

For his part, well aware that he had placed himself well within reach of the apeman's burly arms, all Wang could do was let out a long sigh, his expression becoming all but resigned to the fact that this wasn't going to end amicably.

"Look, we're not going anywhere, buddy," said Wang evenly, a slight smirk crossing his lips a moment later.

"And just what's so funny?" snapped the apeman angrily, his nostrils actually flaring a bit as he glared at Wang. "You think it's joke that I'm about to rip out your spine?"

"No, I was just remembering a movie I saw once," replied Wang, very surreptitiously changing his stance a bit as he kept a firm gaze on the apeman. "Great flick, a classic really, maybe you've heard of it; 'Good Morning, Vietnam'?"

"Just what the fuck are you getting at, smart-guy?" asked apeman as he did his best to hover menacingly over Wang.

"Just that you reminded me of a line in the movie, that's all," replied Wang, his tone anything but intimidated. "Goes something like this; 'I've been all around the world, seen a lot of places and a lot of people; I have never ever in my travels come across a man as large as you, with as much muscles, who has absolutely no penis'."

As his eyes went wide with a sudden surge of rage, apeman cocked back his right hand, preparing to deliver what would likely be a very punishing blow directly into Wang's smirking face.

But before apeman had a chance to fully curl his fingers into a first, Wang suddenly lunged forward, delivering a clearly stunning head-butt to apeman's face, the slight crack echoing through the air leaving little doubt that apeman's nose had been broken instantly by the strike even as Wang followed up his attack with a swift, equally punishing knee to apeman's groin.

As the apeman crumpled to the ground, his nose streaming blood, an almost pathetic whimper escaping him as he clutched at his groin, the scene surrounding the Fifty-Eighth's table devolved into little more than a wild melee, the slightly panicked cries of other patrons scrambling out of the way filling the air.

With the group, conspicuously minus their apeman spokesperson, surging in towards the members of the Five-Eight, the table and empty shot glasses disappeared in a tumble across the floor as the impromptu battleground became filled with a flurry of flailing arms and legs, the air heavy with the sound of fists landing firmly on meat and bone.

Flush with his initial victory, Wang let go with a truly inspiring battlecry as he all but leapt through the air towards two more attackers who rushed him.

Hawkes practically squealed in glee as he lunged up and immediately sent one of his own attackers tumbling over the top of a nearby decorative partition wall, the crash of shattering glass echoing out as the flailing body landed hard on a table on the opposite side.

Vansen, forgoing all pretense of fair play, snatched out with her hand, grabbed up an empty shot glass from a table nearby and launched it straight and true directly into the face of the man hapless enough to pounce at her. Stunned by the heavy glass projectile, he barely had a moment to process the pain of the impact before Shane surprised the hell of out a couple of bewildered onlookers by rushing forward to deliver a follow-on right hook worthy of prize fighter that sent the man crashing into a stack of empty chairs.

After absorbing a quick series of shots to his torso, West rebounded on pure drunken adrenaline and surged forward with a surprisingly rapid triple stroke, a right jab to the face, left jab to the throat, then a perfectly aimed right uppercut that sent yet another body careening back over top of the still-huddled apeman.

Damphousse, while no longer deemed fit to fly nevertheless seized the moment to prove that she still had some righteous fight left in her. Very deftly and with almost dancer-like precision, 'Phousse slipped out of her chair, wheeling about as she moved to sweep the legs out from another attacker even as she popped back up, fists clenched into a perfect fighting stance.

But even as the Five-Eight got their first licks in, the inebriated bravado of their attackers surged, the group clearly placing their confidence in the idea that numbers could still trump skill.

For a moment, that held true.

Singling out Hawkes as perhaps the most direct brute-force threat, two bodies slammed headlong into the InVitro, the impact sending him sprawling out onto the floor.

Vansen found herself the victim of a flying chair that landed square in the center of her back, knocking the wind from her as she crumpled to the ground.

Wang, having leapt right into the heart of the fracas, found himself quite unexpectedly pin-wheeling through the air, crashing down hard on the dance floor a moment later, a few panicky bystanders stutter-stepping out of the way as he slid to a stop at the foot of the lounge's stage.

Staggered by a punch that quite literally sent a flash of stars through his vision, West felt his knees buckle a bit, his body slumping back onto a table even as his opponent snatched up a significant amount of material on the front of his shirt.

As he looked up to see the clenched form of a first cocking back to deliver another hammer blow, West's ears caught the sound of a couple loud cries echoing through the air.

In a blur of motion, something slammed headlong into the burly bastard that had been readying to pummel West.

Glancing over, West was surprised to see Nick 'Gramps' Keegan kneeling over West's attacker, the hard snaps of a fist landing repeatedly against meat echoing out as Keegan delivered a few quick jabs.

And Keegan wasn't alone.

Racing up unseen behind the man who'd squared off with Damphousse, Jim 'Rocky' Stone slapped the side of the man's head, the act little more than a love tap to get his attention so that the hammer blow Stone delivered a moment later didn't arrive unannounced.

As Michelle 'Shock' Low and KC 'Sweet Pea' Latuner helped Wang back to his feet, it seemed to dawn collectively on the group of attackers that the numbers had been more-or-less equaled up, the fury of the fight ebbing quickly into a lull as everyone paused to resize the situation as a whole.

"Now, as we were saying," began Wang, his breathing heavy as he ambled his way back over on uncertain legs. "If you boys don't mind, we're going to finish our drinks."

"The hell you are!" called out a loud, firm voice. "All of you get down on the ground, now!"

At that, the area suddenly became flooded with a rush of bodies in black slacks and jackets.

In very short order, the new arrivals, apparently the casino's security team, swept in and began snatching the up brawlers and slapping sets of handcuffs into place.

"Whoa, wait, we didn't start the fight!" shouted Hawkes as four of the black coats cornered him over near the bar, each of them very much cued in to the InVitro's body language, every cell in his body indicating that the fight had not yet gone out of him.

"Shut up and put your hands behind you back!" snapped one of the security officers as he slowly produced a set of cuffs from inside his jacket.

From the defiant look on his face, it was clear that Hawkes wasn't about to be simply led away in restraints. But, whatever resistance Hawkes was about to offer up all but vanished as the other three security officers around him quickly whipped out collapsible batons, the hard snap of the baton blades locking into place serving to quell his ingrained impulse to fight his way out.

With a disgusted sigh, Hawkes glowered over at the four security officers as he slowly turned and put his hands behind his back.

* * *

><p>"I'll say this for you guys," sighed Nick Keegan as he casually looked around at the bare beige walls of the casino's security holding room. "You sure know how to throw a going away party."<p>

"Yeah, well, who'd have guessed we'd be the ones 'going away'," muttered Hawkes as he squirmed against the cuffs around his wrists.

"I still don't think it's fair that they have us in here," groaned Wang as he looked over at the two silent security officers at the desk on the opposite side of the room. "We weren't the ones who started that fight."

"Well, technically, _you_ started it when you head-butted that guy, Paul," sighed Damphousse as she cast a slight smirk over at Wang. "Where the hell did you learn to do that, anyway?"

"Yeah, Wang," chimed in West as he leaned forward a bit, the side of his face clearly swollen from the punch he'd taken. "Back in training you barely made Tan Belt."

"What can I say?" shrugged Wang as he did his best to get comfortable, at least as comfortable as he could be while seated on a simple wooden bench with his hands cuffed behind his back. "That guy just brought out a bit of the Chicago streets in me."

As the group let out a light chuckle, West slowly looked over beside him at Vansen.

With her eyes closed, she sat on the edge of the bench taking slow, deliberate breaths, her rapidly bouncing leg a clear sign of agitation.

"Hey, Shane, you okay?" whispered West, leaning in a bit in a vain attempt to be discreet.

Opening her eyes a bit, Vansen noticed that in spite of West's effort to be inconspicuous, Hawkes, Wang, Damphousse, Keegan and Stone were all looking over at her.

Feigning a grin, Vansen quickly nodded her head even as her leg continued to fidget.

"Just need to pee really bad," she said simply, a half-hearted chuckle escaping her.

Although the answer seemed to mollify the others somewhat, being seated right next to Vansen, in some ways having always been a bit better cued in to when things were troubling her, West wasn't so easily convinced. Nevertheless, as Vansen slowly closed her eyes again and resumed her slow, deep breathes, West opted not to press the issue for the time being.

"How much longer are you planning to keep us in here?" asked Stone as he looked over at the two security officers at the desk.

"Not our call," replied one of them, shrugging his shoulders slightly as he glanced over at the simple clock on the wall. "All depends on how long it takes Metro to get here."

Scoffing slightly, Hawkes shook his head as he continued to squirm against the restraints.

"Can we at least, I don't know, give someone a call to let them know what's happening?" asked Wang.

"You've still got two friends out there who didn't get hooked up," replied the other security officer as she casually stepped over to the old water cooler in the room and filled her simple wax-paper cup. "They'll be able to let anyone who asks know where you are."

"Well, is there any chance I can at least get a drink of water?" asked Wang as he watched her take a sip from the cup in her hand.

"Not a chance," she replied with a smirk and a slight shake of the head. "Last thing I want tonight is to be the next person to receive one of your head-butts."

In spite of their situation, the detained members of the Five-Eight were able to enjoy another small chuckle at that, no matter how strained. After that, though, silence fell once more upon the room and time itself seemed to stand still as they were left with little to do except sit there awaiting their uncertain fate. For what seemed like a veritable eternity, they all waited with baited anticipation, the slight ticking of the hands on the old wall clock the only real sound in the room beyond the occasional grunt of discomfort or deep sigh.

In fact, the general mood was so tense that when the sudden thumps of someone knocking on the exterior of the door echoed out, a couple of the Five-Eights, as well as the female security officer, actually jumped a bit.

Looking somewhat askance over at his co-worker, the male officer stood up from the desk, made his way over to the door, and slowly opened it.

"Oh; yes, sir?" asked the officer as he poked his head out.

With their collective attention focusing in on the door, all the member of the Five-Eight strained a bit to hear whatever conversation the security officer was having with whoever it was outside the door.

"Think the cops are here?" muttered Hawkes.

"Maybe," sighed West, for his part wondering just how much trouble they'd all be in once they got back to base.

At last, the security officer popped his head back into the room.

"Hey, Martinez," muttered the officer, motioning his head out towards the hallway. "Chief wants us to clear out so he can talk to them alone."

Her expression somewhat quizzical for a moment, the female security officer, Martinez apparently, simply shrugged her shoulders as she tossed her empty cup into the trashcan and meandered her way over to the door.

As the two security officers disappeared out into the hallway, the veteran members of the Five-Eight watched as someone else entered into the room in their stead.

With their eyes going wide, some in surprise, Hawkes in particular with a peculiar sense of dread, they watched the gray-haired man who'd entered grin somewhat deviously at them as he slowly made his way over to the desk while eyeing them, his gait hampered by a slight limp.

Attired in a finely cut business suit, the man let out a long sigh as he slowly lowered himself into the lone chair behind the desk, his eyes never leaving the Five-Eight as he continued to smirk ominously at them.

As the older man sat there, taking several excruciating moments to silently look each one of them over, the already-palpable tension in the room managed to go up several more notches as he continued to do little more than scowl at them.

"Sergeant Major Bougus?" muttered Vansen finally, her leg at last stilled from its jittery bounce.

"You know this guy?" muttered Keegan as he slowly leaned over towards Hawkes.

"Oh, they know me, alright," muttered the stony man at the desk, a cool smirk on his face as he leaned back a bit in the chair.

"He was our Enlisted Instructor during flight training in Loxley," muttered Hawkes as he little more than glowered back over at Bougus.

"And now I am the Security Director of this fine establishment that you group of miscreants helped tear up this evening," replied Bougus as he locked eyes with Hawkes, not flinching in the slightest in spite of the InVitro's fiercely defiant stare.

"I thought there was a stop-loss in effect," muttered Hawkes somewhat acidly. "How'd you get out with a war on?"

"Well, Hawkes, I see that mouth of yours still lacks a filter," replied Bougus as he and Hawkes continued to glare openly at one another.

Back during training, there had truly been little love lost between Bougus and Hawkes; indeed on their very first meeting Bougus had quite openly expressed his utter disdain for InVitros as soldiers. To Bougus, having someone like Hawkes sentenced to the Marines in lieu of jail was tantamount to sacrilege; to a man like Bougus, the Corps was less a job a more a religion, and Hawkes represented heresy to good order and discipline.

Taking in a deep breath, Bougus paused as he absently reached down and massaged his upper leg.

"But, if you must know, Hawkes, I didn't get out by choice," continued Bougus, his deep voice losing a bit of its acerbic edge as he looked back over at the rest of the Five-Eight. "I was with One-One during the initial drop on Memnon; took a couple chunks of Chig shrapnel when they hit our CP, collapsed a lung and shattered my femur. Took about a year for me to learn to walk again. But with a permanent limp and an appreciable loss of lung capacity, the Corps had little choice but to cut me a Medical retirement."

Pausing long enough to let out a long sigh, Bougus gently shook his head as he stopped massaging his leg, his face once more taking on an air of almost ominous gloom.

"Though I'd say it's a damned sight better than the BCD you misfits are looking at for tearing up our lounge tonight," began Bougus as he slowly leaned in over the desk. "Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, destruction of private property; how do you think your command is going to react when they find out you all were involved in a drunken brawl while on liberty?"

"Not well, sir," replied West simply, his throat somewhat dry.

"Don't patronize me with that 'sir' crap, West," sneered Bougus. "I may be out, but I _still_ work for a living."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine?" snorted Hakwes as he shook his head slightly.

"That's right, Hawkes," nodded Bougus, his tone again softening a bit in spite of Hawkes' sarcastic tone.

For a few moments, silence hung in the air as Bougus simply sat there looking at them, his expression hard to read, part subtle contempt, part contemplative sympathy.

At last, Bougus simply began shaking his head, a slight snort escaping him as he lifted himself up from the chair behind the desk and began making his way over towards the bench.

"All of you, get up, get on your feet," he muttered as he reached inside his suit coat.

For a moment, the members of the Five-Eight hesitated, clearly unsure what Bougus was about to do.

"I said on your feet, Marines," growled Bougus, his tone just firm enough that each of them couldn't help but wonder for a moment just how much of an impediment his limp would actually be if he decided to kick their collective asses.

Letting out a long, almost cautious sigh, West was the first to rise from the bench.

Stepping up to him, Bougus very casually motioned for West to turn around.

Then, much to everyone's surprise, most especially Hawkes', Bougus removed the handcuffs from West's wrists.

As West slowly turned back around, Bougus casually tossed the cuffs down onto the bench as he motioned for Vansen to turn around next.

"Does this mean you're letting us go?" asked Wang as another set of cuffs dropped with a clatter onto the bench.

"It means I'm one of the people responsible for teaching you idiots to fight," replied Bougus flatly, the barest hint of a smirk creeping onto his face as he removed Wang's cuffs. "Would hardly be fair for me to have Metro cart you all off to the drunk tank for displaying the aggressive spirit I spent months trying to hammer into all of you."

As he finally removed the last set of cuffs, perhaps most appropriately the ones binding Hawkes, Bougus again reached inside his suit coat.

"Besides, a stint in CCDC would seem to be the least of your worries," said Bougus as he pulled out a PRD, a Personnel Recall Device. "You all would seem to have bigger problems to deal with this evening."

A PRD was an admittedly clunky and somewhat obsolete wrist device that each member of the Five-Eight was nevertheless required to have on their person while on liberty in case of an emergency recall. Since they had gone out on the town in civvies, most of the members of the Five-Eight had simply slipped theirs into their pockets, thus like their wallets, keys, pocket knives, lucky Zippo lighters, and in Wang's case a hopelessly optimistic number of condoms, they had been confiscated from their person when they'd been placed in the holding room.

Looking into Bougus' eyes for a moment, West reached out and took hold of the device, his eyes narrowing a bit as he looked down at the short message scrolling across the digital screen.

"What's it say?" asked Vansen as she leaned in a bit to look over West's shoulder.

"Alert status upgraded; all personnel RTB for briefing and deployment," sighed West as he looked up from the screen. "We have to get back to Nellis."

"Martinez will escort you all to Valet," began Bougus as he began making his way over to the door. "You'll find a complementary cab, your other two friends and the rest of your effects waiting for you there."

"What about those goons who jumped us and the damages?" asked Wang, his face wavering a bit as he seemed to realize just a split-second too late that they were being given a reprieve, and his question could mess that up.

"Well those 'goons' are on their way back to Twenty-Nine Palms, their tails tucked firmly between their legs," grinned Bougus as he opened the door. "I told them if they didn't shut their mouths about the whole thing and get back to base ASAP their command would be getting an anonymous high definition copy of the video footage from the lounge. Their First Sergeant is an old friend of mine, and he doesn't take kindly to alcohol-related incidents on libo. Besides, I doubt their egos could much handle word getting out to their buddies that they nearly had their asses handed to them by a bunch of Hammerhead-jocks; grunts are kinda funny that way."

"You're blackmailing them?" sputtered Hawkes.

"I prefer to think of it as clandestine attitude adjustment," countered Bougus. "As for the damages in the lounge, well, the Food and Beverage Manager is a former Marine too so she'll keep quiet and write it off once I explain the situation to her. The only other person I have to answer to on the matter is the casino's Chief Operations Officer, but he'll let it go too once I remind him that a few weeks back a couple of my guys caught him banging some cocktail waitress in the parking garage; I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want _that _footage getting back to his wife."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major," grinned West as he extended a hand out to Bougus.

"I don't need your thanks, West," replied Bougus simply. "Just get your asses back to base and don't come back to my casino…"

His voice trailing off for a moment, Bougus slowly reached over and clasped onto West's hand.

"…at least not till this war is over," finished Bougus, a calm sincerity underlying his gruff tone.

Nodding his head slightly in appreciation, West let go of Bougus' admittedly robust grip, then motioned the rest of the Five-Eight out into the hallway.

As he followed the others towards the door, Hawkes paused when he stepped in front of Bougus.

"Think carefully before you open that mouth of yours, Hawkes," warned Bougus as he looked over into the InVitro's eyes.

Regarding Bougus for a moment, remembering the utterly acerbic and near-abusive manner with which the Sergeant Major had handled him during training, Hawkes nevertheless couldn't help but feel a moment of grudging respect for the grizzled former-Marine.

"Semper Fi, Sergeant Major," muttered Hawkes, his head dipping a bit in subtle but honest respect.

"Hoo-Rah," grinned Bougus as he motioned Hawkes out after the others.

* * *

><p><strong>General Staff Building<br>****Arbat District  
><strong>**Moscow, Russian Federation**

"I've already issued my report to the UN Security Council and the Secretary General's office," began _Generál Ármii_ Pugachyov, pausing as he took a drag from the pipe in his mouth, the smoke it gave off wafting up towards the furiously spinning fan overhead. "Suffice it to say, they are not encouraged by this development."

"According to the readings we managed to get, it looks like it took the enemy ship nearly three times longer to spool their FTL than is normal for our own systems," offered Commander Sean Kelso as skimmed through the information on the page before him. "That could indicate this ship was some sort of prototype."

"Maybe," muttered General Oliver Ranford as he perused his own copy of the report. "I suppose we should count it as a blessing that it wasn't outfitted with that damned Chig stealth technology as well, otherwise, we might never have even known it was there."

"Well so far we've been able to keep this information from leaking to the press," sighed Pugachyov, slight wisps of the smoke he'd inhaled seeping from his mouth as he spoke. "But even with our security measures, it's only a matter of time before the rats in the media sniff out this bit of cheese."

"Which means we not only need adequate countermeasures militarily, we also need to be prepared to deal with the issue in the public forum as well," muttered Air Chief Marshal Howe as she gently massaged the bridge of her nose. "The last thing we need if and when this information goes public is to appear flatfooted in-so-far as a credible response."

"Still, the question remains; how did the enemy get their hands on your FTL technology, Commander?" asked _Kong Jun Shang Jiang_ Liang flatly as she closed the cover on the folder containing her own copy of the report. "Military implications aside, this could just as easily inflame the lingering resistance out there to your people being here on Earth, Commander."

"I am painfully aware of that fact, General," replied Kelso with a long sigh as he likewise closed the cover to his own folder and leaned back in his seat. "Unfortunately, I am just as surprised by this development as all of you are."

"Is it possible the Silicates somehow managed to reverse engineer the ships you lost during the Battle of Banū Mūsā?" asked General Ranford as he cast a glance over at Kelso.

"I frankly don't see how that's possible, General," replied Kelso with a slight shake of his head. "The after-action reports from our pilots indicate all the Raptors we lost during that engagement were _completely_ destroyed; the enemy would have had to be exceptionally lucky to reverse engineer anything from that debris."

"Since your people are more conversant with this form of warfare, Commander, do you have any suggestions on possible countermeasures we can take?" asked Pugachyov evenly.

Taking in a deep breath, Commander Kelso let his gaze wander up to the fan as he pondered the question, his attention as much captured by the way the smoke from Pugachyov's pipe was swirling up into the fan as anything.

"First and foremost, I suggest we deploy as comprehensive a fighter umbrella around the planet as possible," began Kelso as he watched the swirling smoke. "Quite simply, we need to get as many pilots and planes into the air as we can and keep them there."

"That will be very manpower intensive," muttered _Chef d'État-Major de l'Armée de Terre_ Fournier as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Pilot fatigue could begin to take its toll very quickly, nevermind the strain on fuel resources and aircraft maintenance"

"True, but if the enemy is beginning to field FTL-capable ships, even fighter-sized craft would be able to inflict considerable damage unless we have planes able to intercept them when they appear," countered Kelso evenly. "Just a dozen such ships would be able to deliver tactical nuclear ordnance or biological weapons to population centers all over the world with little to no warning."

"They pop in, drop their load and pop out; the death toll could be in the millions depending on which cities they hit," interjected General Ranford as he shook his head in clear dismay. "People the planet over could panic and riot; the chaos alone would hand a clear victory to the enemy in the aftermath of such an attack, never mind the actual casualties."

"So we deploy the fleet and all available squadrons," muttered Pugachyov as he took another long drag. "It will delay our retaking the offensive, but we clearly can't afford the chance of them hitting Earth itself."

"We also have to consider the possibility of an actual ground invasion," offered General Fournier. "If they have also begun equipping transports with these FTL drives, the Silicates could attempt to land those new combat models of theirs on Earth just as we did when we hit Kazbek."

"Maybe, but I think Commander Kelso's suggestion of a tactical strike is more likely than an invasion," began Pugachyov as he gently extinguished the smoldering embers in his pipe. "While our projections indicate they'll be able to field the two million of these new combat bodies soon, that's still just a fraction of what they'd need to subdue a planet with a population in the billions; just our current ground forces alone would have them outnumbered nearly thirty-to-one were they to attempt such a thing."

"But you know as well as I do, sir, the projection of two million is just an estimate at best," countered Fournier. "We still have a wholly incomplete picture intelligence-wise on what the Silicates are up to; some of the information we have is little more than speculation."

"Then, if I may, I suggest we take some more proactive measures to fill in those blanks," stated Commander Kelso evenly as he leaned back in over the table.

"Such as?" asked Ranford as he glanced over at Kelso.

"I recommend we send two of my ships into enemy space," began Kelso as he slowly looked around at each of the heavy-brass officers in the room. "_Savitri_ as primary, _Enceladus_ as escort. Once they are in enemy space, the _Savitri_ can loiter and deploy Raptors throughout enemy territory."

"A reconnaissance mission," nodded Pugachyov.

"Getting some actual eyeballs out there _would_ be better than depending on our ELINT teams," muttered Ranford as he looked over to Pugachyov.

"What kind of support would your personnel need for such a mission?" asked General Liang as she too leaned in a bit over the table.

"Intel officers who can analyze whatever data we find and maybe pilots who can help my people orient themselves once they're in enemy space," began Kelso as he looked back over to Liang. "With their help, we'd be able to better focus our efforts on known enemy strong-points, supply depots, convoy routes, that should be enough for us to get a clearer picture on what is happening out there."

"What about supplies?" asked Pugachyov evenly. "The information you've given us indicates your fleet is nearing fifteen-percent capacity for fuel."

"We've been looking into that issue as well," sighed Kelso. "Your fleet uses what you refer to as helium-three as their primary fuel; our fusion systems are capable of using it as well, at least until we are able to locate a source of tylium in this region of space."

"Helium-three is not a cheap commodity, Commander," countered Pugachyov, a long sigh escaping him as he slowly settled back into his seat. "As-is our supply lines for it are stretched thin providing enough for our own fleet."

"Which is why we've also looked at solium, or deuterium as you call it," nodded Kelso. "Again, our systems can use it; in fact it could prove somewhat more fuel-efficient in the short term because of its higher enthalpy."

"Deuterium _is_ a viable possibility, General," offered General Fournier as he looked over at Pugachyov. "Planet-wide, there are several reserve stockpiles available."

"True, but only because of the number of civilian reactors that still use it," began Marshal Howe as she glanced up from the small stack of paperwork before her. "Private sector might be reluctant to turn over those reserves."

"Secretary General Hayden and the Security Council have made it clear that when it comes to strategic materials, military needs take priority," replied Pugachyov as he reached out for the carafe of water before him and poured a glass.

"I should think a few rolling blackouts is a small price to pay for keeping the Colonial Fleet on the move and in this fight," smirked Ranford.

"Try telling that to the civilians," countered Howe with no small smirk of her own.

"Nevertheless, if your fleet needs deuterium, Commander Kelso, then deuterium is what you will get," sighed Pugachyov as he lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip.

"Thank you, General."

"Will there be any complications to your fleet switching fuel sources?" asked Ranford evenly as he glanced over at Kelso.

"Well, even though our fleet is designed to operate on tylium, our storage tanks can be set up to maintain the cryogenic temperatures needed for deuterium," began Kelso as he likewise reached over and filled a glass of water. "In fact, it was widely used throughout the Colonies before we discovered tylium. Most of our warships are already designed to operate on it as an emergency measure, we'd just need to take certain precautions we wouldn't have to otherwise."

"Such as?" asked Pugachyov as he looked over at Kelso.

"Damage control mostly," sighed Kelso as he took a sip of water. "The higher volatility of deuterium increases the danger posed by onboard fires during combat. We'll also need to put into place more stringent radiological procedures due to the higher levels of waste neutrons released during fusion."

"How quickly can the new procedures be implemented and your vessels readied for deployment?" asked Pugachyov.

Pausing to take a deep breath, Kelso leaned back a bit in his seat, his fingers gently spinning his translator device on the finely polished surface of the table as he mulled over the variables; setup storage and transfer new fuel, implement and verify the new procedures, run test drills for his DC and engineering teams, assignment and transfer of pilots and planes for the mission, finalization of repairs to _Enceladus_…

"Two weeks, General," he finally answered, slowly lifting the glass to his lips for another sip.

"Very well," nodded Pugachyov. "Begin making whatever preparations you need for the operation, I'll get in contact with the Security Council about shifting those deuterium supplies."

"I'll begin lining up the extra personnel and pilots," added Ranford. "I'll also have our intel assets come up with a list of suggested reconnaissance targets and locations."

"Just be sure to keep us apprised if you require any additional support, Commander," finished Marshal Howe as she quickly scribbled out a few notations on a pad of paper. "We'll turn over what we can, but depending on what it is you need, there might be some lead time required to make the arrangements."

"Understood," nodded Kelso as he glanced down at his watch. "For now, though, I'm afraid I have a meeting scheduled with President Bess."

"Of course," smirked Pugachyov as he and the rest of the assembled senior officers around the table slowly rose. "No matter their origin, I understand how politicians hate to be kept waiting."

"I suppose so," chuckled Kelso as he quickly extended a hand to each of them.

Then, with little fanfare, the Commander quickly gathered up his paperwork and made his way towards the door. Knocking gently on the door, Kelso waited as the guard posted outside input the entry code that unlocked it. As the door swung open, the Commander then exited out into the hallway, doubtless on his way to the car assigned to return him to his transport at Chkalovsky Aerospace Base.

As the highest ranking officers of the United Nations International Forces slowly settled back into their plush seats, Pugachyov kept a keen eye on the simple set of lights installed above the door. When the green light once more flashed to life, an indication that the door was once again secure and the internal sound-dampening measures active, the General let out a long sigh and looked back around at the remaining assemblage.

"Impressions?" he asked simply.

"I think he's telling the truth," replied Ranford evenly as he likewise looked around at his fellow ranking officers. "The after-action reports from both his recon plane and the _Pacifica_ indicate they were taken completely by surprise by the presence of the new enemy craft."

"But reports can be falsified, General," muttered Howe as she gently shook her head. "There's still so much that remains a mystery about his people that I don't think we can afford to simply take anything for granted right now."

"And I might be more inclined to agree with that point if they hadn't already saved our collective asses, Diana," countered Ranford with a snort. "Let's not forget that without their intervention a couple months ago, we likely wouldn't even be around to have a conversation like this."

"I would tend to agree with General Ranford," offered General Liang as she absently adjusted the neat piles of paperwork in front of her. "I sense no duplicity on the Commander's part; he genuinely seems as distressed by this development as we do."

"He'd have reason to be if the enemy somehow managed to acquire this technology from them," muttered General Fournier as he gently tossed a pen down onto the table. "We've only just begun our own efforts to reverse engineer the ships they turned over to us; prototypes could be weeks if not months away. Until then, the Colonials are all we really have to counter these new enemy ships."

"Are you suggesting the Colonials are somehow complicit in this situation, that they want us to remain dependent on them for protection?" asked Liang, her face contorting a bit as she glanced over at Fournier.

"Well as long as they are our first line of defense, supplies and materials that might otherwise go to our own fleets will continue to filter to them, won't they?" replied Fournier as he looked quickly around at the other faces at the table.

"That's a rather cynical way to look at things, don't you think, Fournier?" sighed Ranford. "Don't forget, they live on this planet now as well; they gain nothing if the enemy manages to hit Earth. Their defense is ours as well."

"I understand that, General," replied Fournier, his tone softening a bit. "I just think we need to maintain a healthy level of skepticism and continue to compartmentalize certain information till we have been able to verify more about their origins."

"Genetic tests have already proved that they are every bit as human as we are," countered Ranford flatly. "Anything more than that could take years, or even decades to verify. Frankly, with the enemy knocking at the gates, we don't have that kind of time."

"You've always been a very pragmatic man, Oliver," began Pugachyov as he looked directly over at Ranford. "Can you honestly say that you have no doubts when it comes to the Colonials?"

"Every time I look up at the stars these days, I have doubts," began Ranford evenly. "Until two years ago, we thought we were alone; we believed the universe was ours. The one thing we should all have learned by now is that the universe is a hell-of-a lot stranger than any of us were prepared to accept before this war began. In light of everything else we've learned, often painfully, how can we honestly say that anything they've told us is 'impossible'?"

"Very eloquently put, Oliver," smirked Pugachyov as he glanced over at the somewhat stifled Fournier.

"Have there been any additional developments regarding the source of the transmission we detected?" asked General Liang.

"Not much, unfortunately," replied Ranford as he leaned back in his seat. "We've had personnel and heavy equipment excavating the crater in Nevada where we triangulated the signal, but other than a five hundred meter wide sinkhole and some debris indicating a collapsed underground structure, there's not much there."

"Were there any surveillance or other intelligence assets in the area at the time?" asked Pugachyov.

"Unfortunately, no," sighed Ranford as he gently tossed a pen down onto tabletop. "No satellite images, traffic cams, police units, nothing. Whoever or whatever sent that transmission took great pains to choose a location that was both remote and off-grid."

"Then for now all we can do is continue with our preparations," muttered Pugachyov as he leaned in over the table and slowly eyed each of the other senior officers. "And let us hope that the 'universe' doesn't take any more opportunities to show us how strange it can truly be."

* * *

><p>Taking in a long, deep breath, he leaned back against the side of the Raptor as he watched a pair of Earth fighters line up for takeoff at the far end of the runway. With the thunderous roar of their engines at full throttle rumbling out through the air, the planes began their headlong race down the runway then popped up into the air.<p>

"Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand; I don't care, I'm still free, you can't take the sky from me," he sang whimsically as he watched the two planes rise quickly away through the light cloud cover overhead.

"Best not give up your new day job, Major," muttered Commander Kelso as he stepped up to the Raptor.

Smirking a bit, Major Jack Foster slowly turned and came to attention.

"Afternoon, Commander," said Foster.

"At ease, Major," replied Kelso as he casually glanced over at another pair of taxiing planes rolling by. "Kind of surprised to see you here, what happened to Captain Coe?"

"Message came in from the island a little while ago," smiled Foster as he likewise looked over at the sleek 'locals' rolling by. "His wife went into labor so I grabbed a Raptor and came down to relieve him, figured I'd cut him a break so he could be there."

"Well don't you just have a heart of gold?" smirked Kelso as he looked back over at Foster. "And here I though all CAG's were supposed to merciless task-masters."

"When your airwing is a mix of hardened professionals and post-contract volunteers sometimes you have to have a soft touch," replied Foster with a slight shrug. "Major Macedo was also pretty anxious to speak with you; hell, he practically leapt onto the outside of my Raptor as it was ascending to the flight deck."

"Macedo?" muttered Kelso, his brow furrowing a bit as he casually glanced up inside the empty Raptor. "He came down with you?"

"Yes, sir," sighed Foster as he glanced back over at the taxiing planes now making their final turn for takeoff. "He should be back in a moment; when we got here, he asked a couple of the locals to help him find a head."

"Any idea what he wants to speak with me about?"

"Not a clue, sir," replied Foster as the two planes rocketed off along the runway. "But somehow I doubt it's about the ship's laundry over-starching his shorts; twitchy little bookworm nearly wore out the non-skid in the cabin pacing back and forth the entire flight down."

"Are you sure it wasn't just because he needed to pee?" asked Kelso as he glanced over at one of his own Marines walking perimeter around the Raptor.

"He could have done that back aboard _Galactica_, unless of course he's got some weird fetish about peeing on different planets," countered Foster as he glanced over and saw Macedo making his way back across the tarmac from a nearby building between two local soldiers. "Here he comes now."

Turning, Kelso watched as Macedo gave his two armed escorts a perfunctory wave, presumably in appreciation for the head call, then quickly jogged the remaining distance back over to the Raptor.

"I hear you were pretty anxious to have a chat with me, Major," said Kelso as Macedo stepped up.

"You could say that, sir," replied Macedo, his expression clearly agitated. "We have a serious problem."

"Great," muttered Kelso sardonically. "Haven't had to deal with one of those in a while, was getting bored."

"No, sir, this is _very_ serious," replied Macedo as he quickly stepped past the Commander and began, somewhat clumsily, to scramble up the wing of the Raptor. "As you know, I've been going over the recording _Pacifica_ made of the transmission sent to the unidentified ship."

"What did you find?" asked Kelso as he watched Macedo rummage through a bag sitting on the floor of the Raptor interior.

As Macedo pulled out a small digital diagnostic interface, he looked back over at the Commander, and then a moment later, out towards the two armed Russian soldiers standing nearby, his expression momentarily hesitant.

"Sir, it might be better if I discuss this with you in private," said Macedo as he slowly stood back up, his gaze still very much on the two soldiers.

"Don't mind saying, you're acting a bit schizophrenic on the issue, Major Macedo," countered Kelso as he likewise glanced back over at the two Russian soldiers for a moment. "According to Major Foster, your sense of urgency prompted you to try and hitch a ride down here on the outside of the Raptor, now you want a bit of privacy? What's got you so riled up?"

"Probable Code Blue, sir," replied Macedo flatly, his tone just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise around the tarmac.

His eyes whipping back to Macedo, Kelso halfway hoped the computer expert might be attempting some sort of macabre joke, a hope that waned instantly as he noted Macedo's stony serious expression.

"You ready to fly me out to the island, Major Foster?" asked Kelso evenly, his gaze never leaving Macedo as he began making his way up onto the Raptor's winglet.

"Yes, sir," replied Foster, his own tone a bit sober as he looked out past the Raptor, whistled to and then waved over the Marine walking perimeter.

Bid by Foster's whistle, the Marine quickly jogged back over as the Commander stepped down into the Raptor cabin.

As both Major Foster and the Marine scrambled up into the Raptor, Commander Kelso and Macedo continued to stare pensively at one another.

"Go ahead and ride side-seat with the Major, Private," muttered Kelso as he watched the Marine begin to take a seat in the rear compartment.

"Aye, sir," grinned the young Marine, clearly somewhat surprised and perhaps even excited at the prospect of sitting where only pilots or senior officers normally had domain.

As Major Foster and the Marine settled in, Foster beginning his preflight, the Marine watching his every move with an almost childlike curiosity, Kelso and Macedo slowly settled into seats in the rear of the compartment as the side hatch closed and secured.

"I presume you have some pretty damned good evidence to present to me," muttered Kelso as he leaned in closer to Macedo. "The last damned thing I need right now is rumors to start circulating about Cylons where there are none."

"Believe me sir, I wish I was wrong about this," replied Macedo with a slight shake of his head as he handed the diagnostic device in his hand over to the Commander.

As the whine of the Raptor's engines rumbling to life reverberated through the cabin, Kelso looked down at the display screen on the device Macedo had handed him.

"Well, let's start simple," sighed Kelso. "What am I looking at here?"

"This is a signal analysis of the transmission picked up by the _Pacifica_, sir," began Macedo as he pointed down at the two wave-lines on the screen. "As you can see, it was a dual-band transmission, one primary carrier, and a second subcarrier frequency."

"First question; is it possible the ship we picked up near the moon was the source of the second carrier frequency?"

"No, sir…"

"Preflight checks are complete, Commander," called Major Foster. "Do you want me to request departure clearance from the tower?"

"Take off at your discretion, Major," replied Commander Kelso flatly.

As Foster called in over the wireless to the local control tower for departure clearance, Kelso returned his attention to the device in his hand.

"You were saying, Major," prompted Kelso.

"I was saying, sir, that both _Pacifica_ and IFOR have confirmed both signals as having originated at the transmission site in Nevada," began Macedo as the Raptor popped up from the ground, the slight rocking motion as it did so knocking Macedo's glasses slightly off-center.

Taking a somewhat annoyed breath, Macedo reached up and readjusted his glasses, then reached out with his other hand to brace himself against the continued pitching of the Raptor as it continued its ascent.

"Now, neither we nor IFOR have been able to crack the encryption on either signal, so we still don't know what it contained, but," continued Macedo, pausing for a moment as he reached over at tapped his finger on one of the waves. "This signal here has a _clear_ Cylon signature to it."

"What do you mean by 'signature'?"

Reaching out again, Macedo tapped another icon on the screen, the sine wave quickly dissolving into a streaming set of characters.

Instantly, Kelso felt his skin go icy cold.

"That's the Cylon language," muttered Kelso, utter disbelief lacing his every word. "_This_ is what was embedded in the second transmission?"

"Yes, sir," sighed Macedo as he ran a nervous hand back through his hair. "But that's still not the worst of it."

"I don't see how things could be much worse," countered Kelso as he looked over at Macedo. "From what you've just told me the Silicates are operating with Cylon programming; what could be worse than that?"

"I've spoken with several different IFOR intelligence and computer teams about this signal, sir," began Macedo, glancing back over his shoulder for a moment as though some unseen spy might be listening right behind him. "I didn't tell them why I was asking, but I wanted to know if they'd ever seen this kind of signal or computer language before."

"What did they say?"

"That's the really scary part, sir," sighed Macedo. "None of the experts I spoke to were surprised at the presence of these code sequences."

Looking over at Macedo in little short of confused dismay, Kelso's mind raced even as the stream of Cylon language characters continued to scroll almost menacingly across the device in his hand.

"According to everyone I spoke to, these lines of code were part of the program that sparked the Silicate revolt here on Earth," continued Macedo, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

"You're telling me that the 'Take-A-Chance' virus, the program that was loaded into the AI collective memory and led to the Silicate uprising here on Earth, was a _Cylon_ program?" muttered Kelso, the words and their implications swirling about in his thoughts like a maelstrom. "How the hell is that possible, Major? The Silicate uprising took place almost _twenty_ years ago, the only way a Cylon program could be responsible…"

"Is if the Cylons visited this planet long before we ever got here," finished Macedo.

Looking back down at the scrolling lines of Cylon programming on the screen, Kelso's mind began to reel with the implications; in the intervening forty years between the end of the war and the destruction of the Colonies, had the Cylons truly sought out and located Earth? If so, were they now simply waiting out there in the dark, aiding their apparent Silicate proxies, preparing for a strike that might finally bring an end to the human race?

Taking a deep, calming breath against the racing thoughts careening through his mind, Kelso very deliberately looked over at Macedo.

"How many people have you told about this, Major?"

"The only other people who know about what I've found are Titus and Fitzpatrick," replied Macedo evenly. "I briefed them in so they could continue to try and crack the encryption."

"For the time being, make damned sure this information goes no further than that," said Kelso evenly as he looked down at the scrolling code, another frightful possibility popping into his mind as he watched the characters. "Wait, is there any chance our systems have been compromised by this code?"

"No, sir," replied Macedo flatly. "When I realized what this was that was the first thing I checked into. _Pacifica_'s computers are still in stand-alone, but I had them wipe and reformat their communications system just in case, fed them some BS about sending over some software patches later to keep suspicions low."

"And _Galactica_?" asked Kelso pointedly.

"Since no one ever brought up the subject, I never reinitialized the onboard network," said Macedo as his own eyes continued to watch the scrolling Cylon algorithms. "I wiped all the systems I used during the initial study work and transferred all the data over to a stand-alone backup; having no physical or wireless connections at all to any other systems is about as secure a firewall as you can get."

"And this thing?" asked Kelso as he held up the device in his hand.

"Soldered off the wireless network card," answered Macedo. "As soon as the battery dies, the program will be lost when the active memory loses power."

"You almost sound more paranoid about this than I do," smirked Kelso.

"I spent years at MOD working with the Cylon 'brain' in the proverbial basement, Commander," replied Macedo. "No one knows better than I do how dangerous exposing our systems to their programming can be."

"What about the computer systems here on Earth?" asked Kelso.

"I can't even begin to guess, sir," replied Macedo, shaking his head ever so slightly. "If they have been dealing with this kind of code for the last twenty years, I can only assume they have some safety measures in place. Do you think we should tell them?"

Returning his attention to the screen, Commander Kelso mulled over both Macedo's suggestion as well as this particularly frightful turn of events. Had the Cylons really visited Earth before or had the 'locals' by some astronomically implausible convergence of perverse happenstance merely written a computer language that was almost identical to the Cylon language?

Either way, Commander Kelso didn't like the implications.

If one of the repercussions of the enemy acquiring FTL-jump technology was the possibility that the governments and citizens of Earth might somehow view the Colonials as being to blame, or even as a threat, how much worse would their brethren react if they learned that the Silicate rebellion might have been, no, on the face of the information he had quite literally in his hand, most definitely was the result of the Colonials' own struggle with the Cylons?

Having reached a refuge, would they be compelled to leave by a world swept up in the turbulent throes of unmitigated fear? Worse still, if they did go, it seemed all too likely that Earth would suffer the same fate as the Colonies when the Silicates, quite likely aided by the Cylons, decided to strike.

"No, Major, for the moment, we need to keep this one to ourselves," replied Kelso evenly.

* * *

><p>"What are you thinking?" she asked simply as she looked over at her companion.<p>

Slowly looking away from the two Colonial officers, he gazed over into her slightly curious expression.

"It simply amazes me, my dear," he began, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. "Here they are, working ever so frenetically to gather together all the pieces of the puzzle, and yet they still have no clearer an understanding of all that is taking place."

Kneeling down a bit, she looked across in the Commander's face, watched his expression, read the concern and fear etched in his features as he continued to gaze at the Cylon symbols scrolling across the device in his hand.

"It's hardly an easy task," she replied. "And unlike before, we have been forbidden to interfere, to guide them along this path."

"Still, with all the faith they place in their own limited intellects, by now you'd think the answers would be as clear to them as the noses on their little primate faces," he countered, scoffing slightly as he looked around at the interior of the Raptor in mild dismay.

"The circle is not yet complete," she began as she stood back up to her full, regal height, her sleek form towering somewhat over her companion. "Time may be short, but they might still learn the truth."

Looking back over at his companion, he let out a long sigh, a few shades of his near-eternal conceit slipping away for a moment.

"But time is not their worst enemy, my dear," he began as he looked back over at the Commander. "Nor is it really the Silicates or the Cylons this time."

"Then what is?" she asked simply.

"Pride," he replied. "If all of this comes to naught it will be because humanity was unable to overcome their own paranoia and lack of trust."

* * *

><p><strong>Aero-Tech Corporate Headquarters<br>****Las Vegas, Nevada**

As he leaned back in his seat, his absent gaze wandering over the vista of Las Vegas beyond his panoramic window, the mid-afternoon sun shining brightly upon it through a cloudless sky, let out a long sigh.

Ever since he'd awoken following his impromptu meeting with Dillinger and the Silicate a few weeks ago, Lane had tried to carry on with 'business as usual' in spite of the proverbial ball of feverish anticipation nestled like a bounding lead weight within his stomach.

Having turned over the information he'd been requested to retrieve from the recovered UMO hardware secreted away in Aero-Tech's private vaults, Lane had expected some measure of reciprocation, that he'd be let in on the next steps that were to be taken by his comrades in this Faustian bargain to eliminate the Colonials.

And yet, not one phone call had come in, not a single encrypted email had come his way.

For a man in his position, comfortable as he was with always having the inside information, it was positively infuriating that he was being kept in the dark in spite of how much he had to lose.

Worse still, from the plush comfort of his chair, Lane was witnessing his worst fears beginning to come to bitter fruition as his multi-trillion dollar multi-national empire continued its relentless march into irrelevancy. On the very first day that the Colonials turned over their ships to the dozens of aerospace firms around the world tasked with reverse engineering their technology, Aero-Tech stock had plummeted nearly twenty-percent in value.

So it was that with all of his maneuvering, all the legal wrangling unleashed at his bidding coming to naught, he faced the additional sum of humiliation that those who were supposed to be his clandestine benefactors had deemed him unreliable enough to keep him completely ignorant on what they had planned.

In a surge of pure, white-hot rage, Lane suddenly leapt up from his chair. With a primal cry of unadultered wrath Lane lashed out with his hands, snatched up the computer monitor from his desk, and hurled it towards the window.

In spite of his considerable ire, even this action did not yield the result sought by his baser instincts.

Slamming full force into the window, splinters of plastic and metal from the monitor exploded through the air as a massive spider web erupted across the glass.

But while this might have served to slake his initial rage somewhat, what did not serve his mood any was when the remainder of the monitor rebounded from the window, slamming with near equal force a split second later into his shin, his throat this time erupting in a howl as the searing pain of the impact shot through his consciousness.

Clutching as his wounded shin, Lane collapsed to the ground, a torrent of profanities escaping his lips as he lashed out with his one good leg to give the offending monitor one more derisive kick.

Behind him, his office door exploded open.

"Mister Lane, are you alright?" came a voice nearly shrill with panic.

Rolling his eyes, Lane let go a derisive snort as he looked over at his moderately alarmed receptionist.

"Calm the hell down, Madeline," growled Lane as he continued to rub at his throbbing shin. "Just get in touch with facilities about replacing my god-damned window."

"Yes, sir," she replied, her tone still somewhat agitated as she slowly backed out of the office and closed the door again.

Looking down, Lane slowly pulled up his pant leg and looked at the spot where the monitor had struck him. Although some of the skin had been scraped back there was no blood, just a massive red spot that would doubtless bruise rather impressively.

Letting go of his pant leg, another more defiant snort escaping him as he scowled over at the shattered monitor, Lane reached over and pulled himself back into his chair, taking almost comical pains to keep from placing any significant weight on his injured leg.

As the throbbing pain at last began to ebb into merely a dull ache, Lane looked over at the shattered window, in a perverse way almost admiring the handiwork of his momentary rage.

For several long moments, his eyes played across each splinter, each crack, taking in the way they crossed and intertwined.

It was an odd way to find inspiration, but that is exactly what Lane found as he looked at it.

"If they won't tell me what they have planned, I'll have to do something to push this along myself," he muttered as his eyes continued to pan over the broken glass.

With all his other options exhausted, Lane realized he had only one effective course left to him; he might not be able to eliminate the Colonials, but he might still be able to shatter their alliance with Earth.

Turning back to his desk, Lane reflexively reached over for his computer keyboard and mouse, embarrassment washing over him a moment later when he realized they'd be worthless without the monitor lying in broken pieces on the ground.

Shoving the keyboard and mouse away in self-conscious disgust, Lane slowly rose to his feet, testing his injured shin; with everything else, the last thing he wanted his subordinates to see was him limping through their midst.

As soon as he felt confident that he would be able to walk without a limp, Lane very consciously reached up, adjusted his trousers, belt and tie, then began making his way towards the door, snatching his business coat as he went.

* * *

><p><strong>Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System<br>****Orbit**

Very slowly and deliberately, the Supreme Military Commander dropped to one knee and bowed even as his blood felt as though it were boiling with infuriated humiliation.

"We have new orders for you and your fleet," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly. "Our intelligence assets on Earth indicate the carbonites and their new allies are preparing a reconnaissance mission into your territory."

"Our forces are spread thin but we will make preparations to engage them," replied the Supreme Military Leader, his eyes never leaving the deck beneath him.

"On the contrary, we want you to allow the carbonites to perform their mission unmolested," countered Burke MR Zero-Eight-Nine as it leaned forward a bit in its seat.

With his respiratory membranes shuddering with unrestrained shock, the Supreme Military Leader braved a glance up at the five Silicates Overlords.

"What purpose will be served by allowing them to scout our territory unchallenged?"

"Are you questioning our orders again, Supreme Military Leader?" asked Cain Six-Zero-Seven menacingly.

Returning his eyes to the deck, the Supreme Military Leader was seized by the memory of Cain Six-Zero-Seven's grip around his throat the last time he had dared to do so.

"No, Overlord," he replied simply, taking great pains to hide the turbulent agitation he felt inside.

"That is wise," said Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly. "Nevertheless, in the spirit of 'cooperation', I will tell you anyway."

With the sound of articulating hydraulic joints and servos echoing through the chamber, Cain Six-Zero-Seven rose from its seat and stepped down towards the Supreme Military Leader, the menacing sound metal foot falls reverberating off the bulkheads.

For his part, uncertainty screaming through every cell in his body, the Supreme Military Leader kept his eyes on the deck even as he sensed the Silicate coming closer.

"Plans have changed," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "It is imperative that you abandon all forward positions and garrisons, including the mining effort on Kazbek, and pull all your remaining forces back to the home system."

With Cain Six-Zero-Seven now all but looming over him, the Supreme Military Leader slowly cast his eyes back up into the coldly unreadable mechanical face above him.

"That will take some time to accomplish, Overlord," he said simply, half-expecting to once again find himself locked in Cain Six-Zero-Seven's unbreakable grip for having said so.

"Understood and unavoidable," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven, its tone almost surprisingly conciliatory. "In fact, not only do we expect the carbonite reconnaissance mission to be in your territory before the evacuation is complete, it is vital for what we have planned."

Pausing, the Supreme Military Leader mulled over what he'd just been told.

"You _want_ them to see our withdrawal from the forward positions?" he muttered, completely lost in-so-far as understanding the 'why' behind such a strategy.

"Precisely," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "When the carbonites arrive, it is critical to our plans that they report back to their superiors your forces abandoning all positions outside Helios."

"And if they decide to launch an offensive, Overlord?" asked the Supreme Military Commander evenly. "Even with all our forces marshaled here in the home system, they would still be striking only one target; we might not be able withstand such a concentrated assault."

"Our 'cooperation' only goes so far," warned Cain Six-Zero-Seven as it leaned in a bit towards the Supreme Military Commander, the biological being recoiling a bit from the mechanical being's proximity. "You have your orders, you need only concern yourself with carrying them out as directed."

"Understood," replied the Supreme Military Leader somewhat dejectedly as he once again bowed his head.

As Cain Six-Zero-Seven stood back up, the Supreme Military Leader slowly rose from his knee, and without meeting Cain Six-Zero-Seven's gaze, rapidly departed the chamber.

"Do you think he suspects what we are planning?" asked Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three as the chamber entry closed behind the departing Supreme Military Leader.

"Unlikely," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven as it turned back towards the other four members of the Silicate council. "And even if he does, it will not alter the outcome; their usefulness to us is coming to an end."

"Once they have concentrated their forces here, it will be much easier to eliminate them as a species," said Elroy El Three-Eight-Seven.

"Just be sure you do not fritter away too many of your forces doing so," called out another voice that echoed softly off the bulkheads.

Almost instantly, the other four members of the Silicate Council rose from their seats, both they and Cain Six-Zero-Seven immediately bowing down to the figure emerging from the shadows.

Stepping into the light with a somewhat uncertain gait, each and every step very slow, exceedingly deliberate, the veritably ancient figure with a frightfully thin amount of startlingly white hair and a face deeply etched with the crevices of all-too-human wrinkles slowly stepped towards the five bowed figures.

"While these aliens are also biological, their destruction is not our primary concern," said the Cavil evenly, almost wheezing a bit from the effort it took to walk as he came to a stop before the prostrate Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "Be careful as you move forward to not lose sight of the priority; the final extermination of the human pestilence."

"Yes, your Excellency," said Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "Our construction efforts are proceeding on schedule."

"Very good…" began Cavil, pausing as he took in an exceptionally winded breath. "The data provided by the human, Lane, did it contain the information we require?"

"It did, your Excellency," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"Then begin preparing the next phase of the operation," said Cavil as he slowly turned and began shuffling his way back towards the shadows.

"By your command," replied all five Silicates in unisons.


	16. Calculated Risk

**Dolphin Island  
><strong>**In the Coral Sea  
><strong>**Approximately 100 Kilometers from the East Coast of Australia**

As he stepped back out into the tropical evening air, Commander Sean Kelso took in a long, deep breath, the subtle scent of the sea carried on the gentle breeze rustling the surrounding palm fronds calming him somewhat.

Much as he'd expected his exhaustive one-on-one meeting with President Bess had not been a particularly pleasant one. But with Macedo's discovery of Cylon programming in the Silicate transmission, and the decidedly alarming ramifications that discovery seemed to portent, the two of them needed to be on the same page in-so-far as how to respond.

Of particular concern to the both of them was the question of just how much they should tell IFOR about what Macedo had discovered.

As the two of them had grappled with the issue, with Commander Kelso providing his insights on the military side and the President his own on the civilian side, one thing had become all-to-painfully clear to both of them; with the suspicions of various Earth officials still high and their cooperative trade and defense agreements still rather embryonic in nature, divulging the information now could prove disastrous.

Worse still was the specter of how Macedo's discovery might be received by the survivors of the Twelve Colonies themselves. How much chaos would be sewn amongst those who'd escaped the Cylon Holocaust if they learned that their genocidal enemy may have known about Earth all along?

For a moment, he couldn't help but feel there was an almost nihilistic cruelty to all of it, be it because of fate or chance or the gods, one that left Kelso's blood almost boiling within his veins.

Nevertheless, Commander Kelso knew he had little choice but to come to terms with the situation for it imparted new urgency and clarity to his mission to assist IFOR in bringing the war with the Chigs to a close; if the Cylons were in fact a hell-of-a lot closer than any of them had suspected then Earth needed to be readied and focused for the far more dangerous conflict apparently lurking unseen amid the trackless depths of space.

As he made his way along the main thoroughfare through the settlement from the President's residence, the dim glow of the simple street lights lining the path casting almost eerie shadows around the area, Commander Sean Kelso tried to set aside the torrent of concerns racing through his thoughts if for no other reason than to avoid raising any suspicions amongst the myriad of people scattered throughout the area.

Quite simply, the last thing any of them needed to see was a brooding Colonial officer in their midst.

So it was that as he continued to amble along the main lane through the settlement, Kelso instead focused his mind quite deliberately on the ordinary, the seemingly mundane minutiae of a shattered culture working to reassert itself in the wake of incalculable loss.

Outside the recently consecrated temple, a group of worshipers waited to present their sacrificial offerings to the priestess, the rhythmic chanting of several laypersons offering up hymns to the gods adding a modicum of solemnity to the proceedings as those offerings were placed within the flames of the sacred hearth.

In contrast, on the opposite side of the street several kids in their early teens were involved in a particularly boisterous game of pyramid, each of them jockeying for position amid the dust being kicked up on the makeshift court, the shouts escaping them punctuated by the cheers for one side or another coming from the small entourage of parents watching nearby.

A little further along was a small market bazaar that had sprung into being almost overnight, a few particularly enterprising individuals fastidiously tending to a series of shanty kiosks, each offering a variety of rather ordinary fare that under the circumstances still held an aura of the extraordinary; clothing items, fruits, assorted sundry items, even some handmade jewelry.

As he came to the intersection with the path that would lead him back to the airfield, Commander Kelso casually glanced over, and to his genuine surprise, caught sight of a pair of crude yet quaintly appropriate signs marking the intersection and for a moment was somewhat disappointed in himself for not noticing them earlier when he'd arrived.

With a slight smirk, Kelso paused at the junction of Heracles Highway and Vanguard Way. Amid this conflux of visceral humanity, the blossoming maelstrom of his people making the transition from dejected refugees to budding community, he took a moment to absorb the undercurrents of hope engendered by the simple yet irrepressible life around him, savored it in order to fortify himself against the creeping uncertainties stirred by what he'd learned from Macedo.

As if to punctuate the thoughts coursing through his mind, the children back at the makeshift pyramid court let out another loud shout as one side scored while off in the distance, a soft melody carried on the breeze caught his ear; a mother's gentle voice singing a soothing lullaby to a crying infant.

For a moment, Sean Kelso considered taking a moment to visit with his father.

Despite the encounter with the enemy ship out near the moon, Adrian Kelso had been quite insistent with both Sean and the President that the plans to turn over command of _Pacifica_ to Captain Cole go forward.

For his part, Sean couldn't really begrudge his father wanting to settle on the island. When cast in the light of his father's service during the Cylon War, and perhaps more importantly, because of his truly awe-inspiring conduct in shepherding tens of thousands of survivors away from the Cylon Holocaust, Adrian Kelso had more than earned his respite on this veritable paradise, the chance to do little more than savor his remaining days.

But with the _Savitri_ and _Enceladus_ being readied for their mission into enemy territory, Commander Sean Kelso resigned himself to the need to return to _Galactica_ in order to coordinate the myriad of preparations that still needed to be made.

No, paying a visit to his father would have to wait for another time.

Taking in a deep breath as he cast one more look around at the miracle of utter normalcy surrounding him, Kelso slowly clasped his hands behind his back and began making his way once more towards the airfield at the far end of Heracles Highway.

As his thoughts drifted away towards the finer points of the preparations for the mission into enemy space, the implementation of new fuel and damage control protocols, the shifting of personnel, supplies and aircraft that would be needed for the mission, and about a thousand other such details that he doubted he could fully account for without an exhaustive ledger to catalogue them, Commander Sean Kelso hardly noticed the figure quickly cutting a path towards him.

"Good evening, Commander," began Captain Jordan Gaines evenly as she sidled up beside him.

"Captain," nodded Kelso as he glanced over at her, somewhat surprised at how she had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"May I have a word, sir?" muttered Gaines as she quite deliberately bumped her shoulder into his, a none-too-subtle nudge that Kelso instantly realized was an unmistakable attempt on her part to redirect him towards a nearby alleyway between a couple shelters.

Smirking slightly at her characteristic lack of nuance, Kelso more-or-less acquiesced, fairly certain that she'd likely just up-the-ante on her manhandling of him if he didn't.

As the two of them withdrew into the relative privacy of the shadows in the alleyway, Kelso let out a long sigh as he glanced over and noted the decidedly perturbed expression on Gaines' face.

"You know, us ducking into an alley like this is only going to fuel more rumors," muttered Kelso, the edge of his lips still curled in a wry smirk as he slowly leaned back against the side of one of the shelters.

Shaking her head slightly as she sucked in a deep breath, Gaines all but glared back over at Kelso for a moment, her agitation all but palpable.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" she seethed through partially clenched teeth.

Taking in a long breath of his own, Kelso smirk slowly faded as he looked back over at her.

"Speak your mind, Jordan," he muttered, his tone almost resigned, mostly because he felt he already knew damned well why she was so pissed.

"Well then, with all due respect, sir, have you lost your _fraking_ mind?" she sputtered, her voice almost squeaking at the end as she continued to fume.

"I take it word has already gotten back to you that you're being assigned to garrison duty here on the island," he sighed, for a moment unable to meet her fiery gaze.

"You're gods-damned right it has, sir," she began, taking half a step closer as she spoke, her body clenching up just enough that Kelso couldn't help but feel that she was a split second from throwing a punch.

Taking in another deep breath, Kelso reached up and gently scratched at an itch at the base of his skull, the delay giving him just enough time to glance either way off along the alley to ensure that no one was eavesdropping.

"I don't suppose it matters that the assignment includes a promotion to Major," sighed Kelso as he slowly looked back over at Gaines.

"I don't give a frak about a promotion, sir," fumed Gaines, her fingers continuing to clench and unclench as she took a few hesitant paces back and forth. "What I want to know is why my commanding officer is relieving me of fleet duties at the same time we are preparing an offensive…"

"Hardly an 'offensive'; it's just a reconnaissance run," countered Kelso lightly as he watched her continue to pace slightly. "_Galactica_ isn't even going along…"

"My place is with my Marines, Commander," snapped Gaines as she came to an abrupt halt. "Did that _bitch_ you call XO have something to do with this?"

"That 'bitch' is a Major in the Colonial Fleet," began Kelso evenly as he leveled a decidedly no-nonsense look back at Gaines. "And no, Major Burke had nothing to do with your new assignment; that was _my_ call."

For a moment, Gaines' ire crumbled a bit into stunned silence.

"May I ask why, sir?" she muttered, her voice wavering ever so slightly, eyes wide with agitated confusion.

"Simple," he replied, his tone tantamount to a vocal shrug. "You are the most senior Marine officer left in the fleet, but more importantly, you have the expertise and experience needed to command the island's defense detachment."

"It hardly takes much expertise to write up a guard roster, Commander," countered Gaines flatly. "Hell, any NCO worth their salt can run a guard force…"

"This is more than just a guard force, Jordan," interjected Kelso flatly. "Vipers, Raptors, pilots, Marines; you'll have over two hundred military personnel under your command."

"Then might I suggest Lieutenant Attis?" sputtered Gaines.

"Attis may be proficient with the Drill Manual, but he still has a long way to go as a combat operator," countered Kelso evenly. "This detail requires quite a bit more than simply looking good in a set of Dress Grays. You'll be coordinating with the civilian police, fire services…this is an _important_ assignment, Jordan."

Pausing, Kelso shook his head slightly as he struggled to divine a way to express obliquely what he hesitated to tell her outright. Although he'd been considering her transfer before Macedo's discovery, the information provided by the computer expert only punctuated the need in his mind to have someone of sterling competence at the reins of the island's garrison.

But while Kelso knew Gaines' sense of duty would compel her to accept the transfer, he also realized she deserved to know why he felt he needed her there.

Glancing either way off along the shadowy alleyway, mostly to assure himself once more that no one had begun to eavesdrop on their discussion, Kelso took in a long breath as he took a tentative step towards Gaines. Reaching out to her, Kelso gently slipped his arms in around her and pulled her close, Gaines herself offering little resistance in spite of her still simmering ire.

As her firm, fit body conformed against his, Gaines herself taking in a somewhat clipped breath of anticipation at the embrace, Kelso leaned in still closer, his lips poised by her ear.

While it was clear from the way she'd begun reaching up with her own arms to return the embrace that she perhaps expected something else from the moment, as Kelso began whispering in her ear, he could feel her body tense.

"Earlier today, Major Macedo informed me that he'd found Cylon programming imbedded in the Silicate transmission intercepted by _Pacifica_," began Kelso, his voice barely a whisper as his lips brushed gently against her ear. "Right now, only a handful of people are aware of this and the only reason I am telling you is so you'll understand just how much I _need_ someone who'll take command of our forces here seriously."

"How the hell did Cylon programming get into the transmission?" muttered Gaines, her own voice barely a hesitant whisper as she reflexively held him just a bit tighter.

"Right now, we don't know," replied Kelso, holding her just a bit tighter as well. "But if the Cylons are helping the Silicates, we could all be in far graver danger than any of us thought. I _need_ you here, Jordan."

With that, Kelso slowly pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes.

To his surprise, a lone tear had begun rolling down her cheek.

"Until the President decides otherwise, I need you to keep this to yourself," muttered Kelso as he reached up and gently wiped the tear from her cheek.

"I understand, sir," choked out Gaines, nodding slightly as she broke eye contact. "If they're out there, if they come, I'll make sure we're ready."

"I know you will, _Major_ Gaines," muttered Kelso, the barest hint of a smile on his lips as he reached up and gently nudged at her chin.

Then, with very deliberate gentleness, Kelso leaned in and gave her a soft, tender kiss. For a moment, that kiss hung there between them, careful, absent of lust, yet warm, comforting, a fortifying affirmation of the long unspoken affection they each harbored for one another.

As their lips finally parted, Gaines sucked in a clipped breath, and without another word quickly turned and scurried out of the alleyway.

Lingering there for a few more moments, Kelso fought to reconcile the demands and uncertainties embodied by his role as commanding officer with the desires and dictates of his own heart.

For a man who'd spent the vast balance of his life dealing with the quantifiable, it was no easy task, and in the end all he could do was resign himself to following his own guiding principle; take everything one step at a time.

With the war, with the Cylons, and most certainly with Jordan Gaines.

Gods willing, when it was all over, maybe…

As his eyes once more wandered to the stars glinting overhead, the breadth of uncertainty encompassed by the word 'maybe' weighed heavily upon Sean Kelso.

Maybe one day he and Jordan would be able to put aside all the hindering pretenses and simply be together.

Maybe with the help of his fleet, the war with the Chigs and the Silicates could be brought to an end.

Maybe all those hopes would come to naught with the Cylons unleashing the same horror upon Earth that they had upon the Twelve Colonies.

So it was that as he stood there looking up at the twinkling stars overhead, all Commander Sean Kelso could think about was how much he was beginning to dislike 'maybe'.

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Orbit of the Blessed Homeworld  
><strong>**Fifth Planet of the Helios System**

With an embittered sense of impotent humiliation coursing through his body, the Supreme Military Commander looked out at his remaining subordinate commanders trying to gauge their reactions to the orders he'd just relayed from their Silicate Overlords to pull the functional entirety of their military back into the home system.

Silicate Overlords…

The very title, an infuriatingly grandiose designation the artificial beings had chosen for themselves and imposed upon his people, was an anathema to him.

It wasn't simply that the artificial abominations had assassinated the Civil Leadership, or that they had seized effective control of the war by placing biological weapons on the crèche moon and then ordered hundreds of thousands of his warriors on suicidal attacks, nor even the abhorrent cruelty of having consigned thousands of innocent civilians to lingering death mining ore in the irradiated regions of Kazbek. No, the greatest, most potent and piercing betrayal was that they had done all these things after feigning to be their allies.

There were so many concepts the humans had that were so completely alien to the Supreme Military Commander and his people, most especially those regarding religion and the so-called life-after-death, but betrayal, something almost completely unknown amongst his people prior to the war was now something with which he had become all-too excruciatingly acquainted.

From the looks on the faces of his senior-most surviving commanders, it was a bitter elixir they too were choking down in copious doses.

"Did they give any indication as to the specific strategy behind such a move, Supreme Commander?" asked one officer, the respiratory membranes within his gills shuddering in agitation as he spoke. "Such a concentration of our forces here in the home system will not only allow the humans free reign throughout our territory, but it will compromise our defense in-depth strategy; the humans would only need to muster one massed assault in order to irrevocably cripple our ability to resist."

"The Overlords expressed no strategy to me," replied the Supreme Military Commander dejectedly. "And had I pursued the matter, I fear it might simply have provoked them to impose even harsher measures on our people then they already suffer."

"How much harsher could conditions truly be for our people?" spat another of his subordinate commanders angrily. "The Silicates abducted thousands of our people and transported them to work the mines of Kazbek, a slow and painful death from radiation exposure their only respite from the impossible procurement quotas."

"Yes, all this we know," seethed the Supreme Commander, as much because he didn't need the individual atrocities being committed upon his people itemized for him since they were very much already at the forefront of his thoughts.

"But what are we going to do about this, Supreme Commander?" shot back his subordinate, the act itself a decidedly uncharacteristic display of near rebelliousness.

"What would you suggest we do?" snapped one of the other commanders. "The devices the Silicates have placed on the crèche moon would ensure the genocide of our entire race were we to try and drive them from our territory."

"More to the point, in light of the catastrophic losses we suffered driving the humans from our territory, I do not believe we have the forces necessary to undertake such an action," interjected the Supreme Military Commander. "With the unfortunate sacrifice of so many of our warriors, the loss of so many ships, not only have we been left functionally defenseless against the humans, I fear we are now equally incapable of expelling the Silicates even without the threat of biological extermination."

"Supreme Commander, doesn't it seem likely this is what the Silicates intended all along?" began the most rebellious subordinate evenly. "Our own short-sightedness blinded us once to the depths of the Silicates' capacity for deception; it would be tantamount to suicide for us to believe they will simply leave now that they have stripped away our resources."

"Are you suggesting they will attempt to destroy us now that we can no longer effectively resist the humans?" asked one of the other subordinate commanders, his respiratory membranes shuddering with alarmed agitation.

"What reason do we have to believe otherwise?" countered the rebellious commander.

"Regrettably, I am forced to agree," muttered the Supreme Military Commander solemnly as he looked back over at his assembled subordinate commanders. "Although they have given us little information, it is clear the Silicates have been diverting our resources in order to assemble a fleet of their own. Worse still, if they have developed their own version of these faster-than-light engines the humans now have, we would have little to no warning if they launched an attack against our home world; we would be defenseless."

For a moment, a tense silence settled in over the assembled senior commanders as the sobering probability of their species' impending extinction hung over them.

"Supreme Commander, we cannot simply accept the destruction of our people," began the rebellious commander once more. "There _must_ be something we can do."

As he slowly looked back over at the assemblage of commanders, the Supreme Commander's respiratory membranes rattled as he let out a long breath.

"My comrades, faced as we are with the possible annihilation of our species, as repugnant an option as it is I feel we have only one alternative."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Commanding Officer's Quarters**

Taking in a long, pensive breath, Commander Sean Kelso sat watching his two senior-most officers expectantly, gauging their body language and expressions for some hint of what was going through their minds over the information he'd just given them.

For her part, Colonel Brianna Webber simply sat there, silent, tensely massaging her right temple as she stared absently at the deck, the look on her face a cross between shock and nausea.

By contrast, Colonel Thadius Runel had very quickly popped up from his seat as though struck by an electric current the moment Kelso had fallen silent, his demeanor unmistakably agitated as he began pacing back and forth like a caged, quietly enraged animal.

"Is there any possibility Macedo's analysis is wrong, sir?" asked Webber, her tone clearly hopeful as she looked back over at the Commander.

"I'd be outright lying if I said there was, Colonel," replied Kelso, a long sigh escaping him as he spoke. "I spent over three hours going through the report with him piece by piece; I wouldn't have bothered telling the two of you if the evidence wasn't conclusive."

"How many others know about this, sir?" asked Runel as he continued to pace.

"So far we've been able to keep this information compartmentalized," began Kelso as he slowly lifted himself from his seat and began making his way around to the front of his desk, as much because his own simmering agitation was making it difficult to simply stay put. "The only ones who know are the President and Major Gaines. I'm sure I don't need to remind the two of you of the importance of keeping it that way until instructed otherwise."

Somewhat absently, both Runel and Webber shook their heads.

"Good," sighed Kelso as he leaned back against the front of his desk.

"When does the President plan on telling IFOR, sir?" asked Webber as she continued to eye the Commander expectantly.

Meeting her gaze, Kelso took in a slow, hesitant breath.

"For the time being, there are no plans to tell them," he finally said evenly.

At that, Webber simply stared over at him in wide-eyed shock as Runel's relentless pacing came to an abrupt halt.

"With all due respect, Commander, why the hell not?" sputtered Runel, his tone almost indignant as he met the Commander's gaze. "If the Cylons have been mucking around in Earth's affairs, they have a right to know what we've learned so they can better prepare for whatever's coming."

"And with our help, hopefully they will be," replied Kelso, his tone low but firm as he met Runel's unflinching gaze. "But the President feels, and quite frankly I agree with him, that telling IFOR about this is a potentially destabilizing complication we just can't afford right now."

As he and Runel continued to stare tensely at one another, Kelso took in a breath.

"Both of you have been heavily involved up here with completing repairs to _Enceladus_ and the reorganization of the fleet so I can understand if you're a bit disconnected from the wider picture," began Kelso, his gaze falling away from Runel as he absently reached up and scratched his forehead. "Although our people have been allowed to settle on the surface in exchange for our help and technology, the open protests in the streets have only recently died down; there's still plenty of simmering tensions worldwide over our being here."

"I imagine an enemy ship outfitted with an FTL drive showing up so close to the planet hasn't helped matters any," muttered Webber.

"No, it has not," replied Kelso, his hand flopping back down against his thigh as he looked back over to Runel and Webber. "The only saving grace on that issue is that the general public hasn't been told about that yet. But with those who _are_ in the know, the Security Council and the IFOR Combined Chiefs, there are a lot of uncomfortable questions being asked right now as to how they got that technology, questions we have no answers to. Quite simply, there are a lot of people down there who already think we have something to hide and revealing what we've learned could only hand them more fodder."

Pausing, the edge of Kelso's lip curled into the barest hint of a wry smirk.

"Truth be told, I can't really say I blame them for being suspicious," he sighed as he looked back over to Webber and Runel. "Considering our FTL technology was a complete unknown to them prior to our arrival, I find it hard to believe the Chigs or Silicates were able to cobble together an R'n'D program and develop a functional system in just a matter of weeks."

"In light of what Macedo found, isn't it likely the enemy got their FTL's from the Cylons?" asked Webber pointedly.

"It's possible," conceded Kelso with a slight shrug. "But if that's true, why did the Cylons wait until now to give them that technology? If the enemy had had FTL's from the start, their war against Earth would have been over long before we ever got here."

"More to the point, if the Cylons found Earth twenty years ago, why didn't they attack it?" began Runel, taking a few more paces as he spoke. "Instigating an uprising amongst the Silicates seems a bit superfluous considering they could have simply nuked it and been done with it; they certainly didn't pull any punches with us."

"And that's part of the problem," sighed Kelso. "Macedo's data aside, we still don't know how deeply involved the Cylons are, either on Earth or in enemy space."

"With the Silicates operating with Cylon programming code and the enemy suddenly getting their hands on FTL technology, they _must_ be involved," muttered Runel as he scratched at the late afternoon stubble along his chin. "Granted, not their style, but they could just be biding their time behind the scenes."

"Not necessarily," countered Webber, canting her head slightly. "For all we know, twenty years ago some stray Raider simply got lost like we did and crashed here."

"Are you suggesting that the Silicate revolt might be have been caused by a couple stray Centurions?" muttered Runel as he cast a somewhat dubious glance over at Webber.

"Maybe," shrugged Webber. "It would certainly explain why the Cylons didn't attack Earth outright."

"If that were the case, then why does every record on the Silicate uprising place the blame for it squarely on Doctor Stranahan?" countered Kelso as he looked over at Webber. "The dossier IFOR handed over to us indicated he alone was responsible for inserting the 'Take-A-Chance' virus that caused the rebellion into the Silicate collective memory."

"Maybe they were wrong," replied Webber, again shrugging slightly as she let out a huffed breath.

"Or maybe they were lying," interjected Runel, shaking his head slightly. "According to the dossier, Stranahan committed suicide not long after the rebellion began; makes it pretty difficult to find out what really happened either way when your only suspect is dead."

"And that right there is the problem; right now, we _don't_ know what happened, not definitively," sighed Kelso, his own frustrations bubbling up in his tone for a moment. "The harder we look for answers to the questions already in front of us, the only thing we seem to find are more gods-damned questions. This situation is riddled with contradictions on both sides, for us and for IFOR. There are too many discrepancies, too much confusion, and precious little time to sort the whole mess out since the enemy is clearly not sitting idle."

Pausing for a moment, Kelso took in a long, somewhat settling breath, his fingers drumming away lightly on the top of the desk.

"I still think we should let IFOR in on what Macedo found, sir," signed Runel as he looked back over at the Commander. "If the Cylons visited this planet twenty years ago, if they _are_ somehow responsible for the Silicate uprising, the people of Earth might not react well if they find out later we were keeping this information secret."

"There's something else to we need to consider," interjected Webber, pausing as she looked back over to Kelso as well. "If the Cylons were able to corrupt the Silicates, how vulnerable is the rest of Earth's computer technology? With our forces and theirs starting to operate in combined groups, we would be in one hell-of-a dire position if the Cylons show themselves and are somehow able to neutralize the Earth fleet just as they did our own."

"Thankfully, Macedo used some of his back-channel contacts to look into that," replied Kelso. "Much like we did at the start of the Cylon War, Earth also took several steps backwards in terms of computer technology at the beginning of the Silicate uprising, put into place some rather exhaustive software security measures not unlike our own that are still employed widely throughout their fleet."

"Let's hope it's enough," sighed Webber, a slight shiver working its way along her spine as she recalled the utterly terrifying moments following the Cylon shutdown of the _Savitri_.

"What should we tell our crews, sir?" began Runel, his tone still simmering a bit. "To be blunt, I'm not happy putting them out there in harm's way without giving them the whole picture of what they could run into once they're there."

"Neither am I, Colonel," replied Kelso evenly. "But all things being equal, this mission is going to be hairy enough without our pilots fixating on phantom Cylon Raiders hiding behind every tumbling rock they come across."

"Sad to say, but I have to agree with that," sighed Webber as she glanced over to Runel. "Just muttering the word 'Cylon' still sends a cold shiver up my spine. If our people let their fears get the best of them, if they get tunnel vision looking for Cylons, they might just miss the Silicate or Chig that ends up killing them."

Looking back over at Webber, Runel took in a long, brooding breath, but at last seemed to relent a bit as he began ambling his way back towards his seat.

"Since the Raptor crews are going to be doing the heavy lifting on this mission, might I suggest we at least break out some appliqué weapons packages, sir?" asked Runel as he slowly lowered himself back into his seat.

"Might be a good idea, Commander," nodded Webber as she glanced back over to Kelso. "I know I'd feel a hell-of-a lot better about keeping this info from them if I were at least able to send them off _Savitri_'s decks with a full load of firepower."

"Absolutely," replied Kelso instantly. "The President and the Citizen's Quorum finalized several supply contracts for new ordnance this week so go ahead and load out our birds with everything you can; drones, jiggers, air-to-airs."

At that, both Webber and Runel seemed to take at least some comfort; although a Raptor wasn't an ideal ACM platform, when outfitted with weapons they did at least have some formidable teeth.

"That being said, though, I want it clear to our pilots that combat is _not_ their mission," began Kelso, pausing to take in a long breath as both Webber and Runel looked back over at him. "ROE's are simple and straightforward; do not fire unless fired upon, and if engaged, extricate as soon as possible; I want to be debriefing live pilots, not sifting through wreckage for black boxes."

"You and me both, sir," sighed Webber.

"Colonel Runel?"

"Understood, Commander," nodded Runel, pausing to lock eyes with Kelso for a moment later. "But what if our pilots _do_ stumble onto something concrete out there, what are our orders?"

Pausing, Kelso met Runel's gaze.

"You are the two most experienced officers in this fleet," began Kelso slowly looked over to Webber. "I trust your judgment; operationally speaking you'll have a free hand to deal with whatever you find as you see fit. My only caveat is that you follow the principle of calculated risk; avoid exposing _Enceladus_ and _Savitri_ to attack by the enemy, be it Chig, Silicate or Cylon unless you are in a position to inflict significantly greater damage on the enemy than you yourselves will suffer."

At that, Runel and Webber glanced at one another. While it was clear that neither was happy about withholding information from their people, it was nevertheless heartening to know that Kelso was giving them veritable carte blanche to conduct the mission as they saw fit.

From his perspective, Kelso didn't really feel a need to put restrictions on the two Colonels; both had more than proved their mettle and sound judgment during the first brutal, harrowing hours of the Cylon assault on the Colonies.

"Whatever you do, though, just be sure to get your ships back here in one piece," continued Kelso, his shoulders slumping a bit as he let out a long sigh. "Because if you do find the Cylons out there, we'll need every ship on the line."

"If we do find Cylons out there…," began Runel, pausing as he slowly looked from Webber to the Commander. "…then may the gods have mercy on us all."

* * *

><p><strong>Earth Orbit<br>****Intra-Solar System Carrier Vehicle  
><strong>**August 2065**

For almost as long as there had been a Marine Corps, there had been an unofficial maxim amongst the grunts that you never volunteered. In fact, the murkier the mission, the less you generally wanted to find yourself a part of it.

But when weighed against the mind-numbing tedium of twelve-hour orbital deterrence patrols, accompanying the Colonial mission into enemy territory was an opportunity Captain Nathan West and the rest of the Five-Eight had practically jumped at.

So it was that as the ISSCV rapidly clawed its way out of the influence of Earth's gravity, Nathan West stood at the porthole looking out at the world of his birth with a somewhat detached wonder, the varying hues of ocean blues and puffy white clouds growing vague, indistinct as they extended off towards the distant curvature of the horizon.

"I remember Phousse saying that seeing Earth from orbit made her feel both insignificant and supreme at the same time," muttered Vansen as she sidled up beside West.

"I'm just glad to be getting a break from seeing it from inside a Hammerhead," replied West as glanced over at a large IFOR battlegroup patrolling nearby. "I was getting tired of having an almost perpetually numb ass from sitting in a cockpit for hours on end on those deterrence patrols."

"Tell me about it," smirked Vansen. "Twelve hours in a plane day after day, my rear was starting to get as flat as a pancake."

At that, West couldn't help but cast a bemused glance down at Shane's posterior.

"Looks pretty round and firm to me…" shrugged West, wincingly slightly as Vansen landed a firm but playful punch against his shoulder as the words left his mouth.

Smirking still wider, Vansen shook her head a bit as West chuckled.

"So what have they decided?" asked West as he motioned his head over at the rest of the Five-Eight sitting amid the large contingent of personnel aboard the ISSCV.

With Stone, Low, Keegan and Laturner all now permanently assigned to the Fifty-Eighth, as generally unorthodox as it was it nevertheless seemed appropriate that each of them to choose a new callsign to fit their new 'Wildcard' identity.

"Work in progress," shrugged Shane as she noted Laturner shaking her head somewhat adamantly at a suggestion offered up by Wang. "Keegan seems to have his mind set of Two of Hearts, something to do with an old British science-fiction show he watched as a kid. The others are gonna take more thought; not a whole lot of inspiration in a deck of cards."

"Well, we've got time," sighed West as he looked back out the porthole in time to catch sight of the massive _Galactica_. "We won't be flying again anytime soon except as side-seaters for the Colonials."

"Speak for yourself, Nathan," countered Vansen as she pointed out at a patrolling quartet of Colonial Vipers. "I don't know where, and I don't know how, but I have got to try out one of those Colonial fighters."

"And just how the hell are you gonna read the instruments?"

"I'm learning," replied Vansen as she gently held up the translator she'd been issued for the mission. "Couple more weeks, I might not even need this thing. Besides, rumor has it the Air Force is thinking about reverse engineering a version of their own soon; they do that, I might have to cross-deck."

"You wouldn't," scoffed West incredulously. "You're Corps to the core, Shane, through and through; the first time you saw some zoomie with his hands in his pockets and hair touching his collar, you'd lose it; remember how much crap you used to give Hawkes about his hair?"

"Well, it _was_ ridiculously long," muttered Vansen. "Never did figure out why Bougus didn't just shave it off."

"He didn't want to look at the navel on my neck," replied Hawkes as he stepped up, the latest yet still clearly well-read issue of G.I. Geequed in hand. "He said it gave him the creeps to see it. Besides, I thought we were done with all that crap about my hair; I keep it low-reg now."

"You finally get caught up on all your 'important reading'?" smirked West as he pointed at the comic book in Hawkes' hand.

"Yeah, it was a pretty good issue, too," grinned Hawkes. "Next edition is supposed to start including stuff about the Colonials."

Just then, the hatch at the far end of the ISSCV compartment popped open with a loud thump.

"All right, look alive, we're on final approach and will be aboard the Colonial vessel _Savitri_ in about ten mikes," snapped Colonel TC McQueen as he quickly looked around at the large assemblage of personnel aboard the ISSCV. "Start policing up your gear and get your translators out; I want everyone ready to move the moment the hatch opens."

"What about our weapons, Colonel?" asked Wang as he motioned his head down towards the sidearm hanging from his hip. "Has there been any word?"

"Colonials were very specific about that; all weapons are to be stowed aboard the ISSCV," replied McQueen, the barest hint of disappointment underlying his tone. "I don't expect you to like the order, but it will be followed; this is the Colonials' house, so we follow their rules."

"Sir, respectfully, what if the ship gets boarded?" chimed in Hawkes. "We're gonna be awfully deep in Chiggy-man's territory, and with these new Silicates out there…"

"All that has already been discussed at a pay grade much higher than yours, Captain," snapped McQueen, his tone becoming decidedly crisp. "But if the enemy does board, there'll likely be quite a few Colonial weapons lying around for us to defend ourselves with."

"Let's hope," muttered Wang as he reached down and pulled his sidearm from his holster, only a split second later seeming to realize how his statement might be misconstrued. "On second thought, let's hope _not_."

"Alright, enough gabbing, get you gear," snapped McQueen simply.

With that, both Vansen and Hawkes stepped away towards their gear as the rest of the personnel in the compartment began hefting packs up from the deck.

Cutting a path through the activity, McQueen casually reached out and took hold of West's arm as Nathan likewise set about gathering up his gear. Glancing over at McQueen, West watched as the Colonel let go of his arm and nodded his head slightly, indicating for West to follow him towards the aft of the compartment.

As the two of them reached the rear of the compartment, McQueen took in a deep breath.

"West, as you know, this mission was pulled together rather quickly," began McQueen as he slowly looked back over and met West's somewhat questioning gaze. "Now when they made me honcho for this detail I went over just about every intel brief we have on the Colonials, know them front and back, but you spent more time amongst them than any other human being…"

Pausing, McQueen's lips actually cracked the barest hint of a wry grin.

"…than any other _Earth-born_ human being," corrected McQueen. "Is there anything you think I should know before we board _Savitri_?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking me, Colonel," replied West, shaking his head slightly.

"Intel briefs are great for facts and figures, West," began McQueen evenly. "But what I want to know are the things that might not be in a dossier.

"To be honest, Colonel, language aside being aboard the _Galactica_ wasn't all that different from being aboard the '_Toga_," replied West evenly. "A bit less cramped, but all-in-all it's still a familiar environment."

"What about the Colonials themselves?" prodded McQueen. "As a people, as a culture, what sense did you get about them while you were aboard?"

"Sir?" muttered West as he held McQueen's gaze, still a bit uncertain about what it was the Colonel was trying to ask him.

"You walked amongst them, slept there, ate their food, what does your gut tell you about them?" prodded McQueen, his tone just barely masking a subdued sense of urgency. "As you know, there are a lot of people who think they haven't been honest with us about who they are and where they come from, that it's a mistake to trust them."

"There are also a lot of people who feel the same way about, InVitros, Colonel," countered West flatly.

"I hardly need a lesson from you about prejudice against InVitros, Captain," muttered McQueen, his tone taking on a subtle edge of warning.

"No, sir, you don't," sighed West as he held McQueen's gaze. "Nevertheless, my point is the same; is there anything the Colonials have actually done that makes it _rational_ to be suspicious of them?"

* * *

><p>As he stood looking into West's eyes, read in them how fully the young man believed in what he was saying, Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen took in a long, contemplative breath.<p>

To be sure, West was absolutely correct; examined in light of just their actions alone, there was no cogent reason to distrust the Colonials. Not only had their formidable warships done what Earth's entire fleet could not do, bring the Chigs' relentless advance to a grinding halt, they had also provided Earth Forces with the breathing room it needed to recover and the means of acquiring an incalculable tactical advantage over the enemy in the form of their faster-than-light engine technology.

Even Admiral Ross, for all the years McQueen had known him the very definition of pragmatic, seemed willing to set aside the contradictions and inconsistencies regarding the Colonials' explanations of who they were and where they came from in light of the sobering reality that Earth itself would have been annihilated were it not for their intervention.

Indeed, McQueen himself had always lived by the belief that a measure of a person lay not in what they said but in what they did. To him, concrete actions always spoke louder than abstract words.

Nevertheless, prior to embarking on this mission, Colonel McQueen had been called in for a compartmentalized briefing with some of the top brass in IFOR command. While a lot of politically-correct lip service had been paid to the idea that cooperation with the Colonials was the order of the day, Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier had made it clear to McQueen that he was to use his time aboard the _Savitri_ to look for some sign, any sign of duplicity on the part of the Colonials.

The sober silence he'd received from them in response when he'd asked what they would do if he found no such deception spoke volumes; clearly, they fully expected he would find something to justify their thinly-veiled paranoia.

For his part, McQueen was mostly prepared to accept that this was simply another order, and whatever the underlying motivation, one that wasn't entirely without place or precedent; spying on allies was as ancient and integral to the history of warfare as spying on one's enemies.

Still, as he stood there looking into West's eyes, saw in them an unwavering confidence and belief that the Colonials might just in fact be the answer to Earth's collective prayer to bring this war to an end, even the no-nonsense military man that McQueen was had to admit that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of looking this particular gift-horse in the mouth.

"See to your gear, West," muttered McQueen simply.

"Aye, sir."

As West stepped away to gather up his gear, McQueen decided it best to set aside his discussion with Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier and instead focus his mind on the tangible minutiae of getting his people ready to disembark.

Above all else, he still had a real mission to command.

As McQueen set about gathering up his own gear, he glanced up at the porthole in time to see the expansive interior of what he presumed was one of the _Savitri_'s flight pods as the ISSCV made its final approach.

Although the _Savitri_ still dwarfed every other ship in IFOR, according to the Colonials she was an older vessel whose elevators from the flight deck to the hangar level were too small to accommodate a full ISSCV.

So it was that as the assembled personnel made final adjustments to carrying straps and generally fidgeted away the last few minutes, the ISSCV flight armature detached from the container section, itself alone just small enough to be moved down into the hangar deck.

Within minutes, the container bearing the IFOR contingent had been pulled down, moved via overhead crane off the elevator platform, and staged off to one side of the hangar bay. Stepping up to the hatch, McQueen brought a firm fist down onto the actuator button, the side hatch popping open with an audible hiss.

As he stepped out onto the deck of a Colonial warship for the first time, McQueen couldn't help but agree with what West had said; although decidedly more spacious than anything in the Earth fleet, there was still a distinct sense of the familiar to the activity taking place around the hangar deck of the _Savitri_.

Flight deck crews moving aircraft about, mechanics working on various components, the air thick with the scent of lubricants, the sound of pneumatic tools and aircraft engines rumbling to life echoing off the bulkheads.

One odd thing he did note was how much thinner the air seemed to be.

Glancing back over his shoulder at the gaggle of personnel filing their way out of the ISSCV container, McQueen took in a somewhat labored breath.

"Alright, this isn't a sight-seeing tour; get in formation," snapped McQueen.

Bid by the command edge in his voice, the personnel, themselves likewise seeming to take somewhat deeper breaths than seemed normal, fanned out and began falling into neat formation beside the container. Although they made a decent show of dressing and covering their alignment, it would have been impossible to miss the awe and curiosity playing across the faces of most of them as they little more than gawked at some of the activity taking place around the hangar deck.

"Stand at ease," called McQueen as he stepped out in front of the formation.

The order itself was more-or-less a perfunctory one; most of the personnel in the formation hadn't exactly been at full attention anyways. Nevertheless, most of the personnel seemed to take it as a license to more fully indulge their barely restrained impulse to gape at all the activity taking place around the hangar.

"Are you Colonel McQueen?" asked a voice that filtered in through his translator's earpiece.

Turning around, McQueen found himself looking into the rather disarming eyes of a decidedly striking brunette woman.

"Yes I am," replied McQueen simply.

"I'm Colonel Brianna Webber," began the woman as she casually glanced over at the troops formed behind him. "I am the Commanding Officer of the _Savitri_."

Almost instinctively, McQueen snapped to attention and executed an about-face towards the formation.

"Detail, atten-_hut_," called McQueen.

In response, the personnel in formation snapped to attention, their heels making an audible collective click as their eyes focused in straight ahead.

Taking a subtle amount of pride in their brisk response, McQueen again faced-about and rendered a crisp salute.

"Request permission for myself and my people to come aboard, Colonel Webber," said McQueen evenly.

While it was clear from her expression that Webber was somewhat bemused by the crisp formality, she nevertheless came to attention as well and returned McQueen's salute.

"Permission granted, Colonel McQueen," said Webber as both she and McQueen dropped their salutes. "It's a pleasure to have you aboard. Do you mind if I address your troops for a moment?"

"Please," replied McQueen as he executed another smart about-face. "Detail, stand at-ease; eyes and ears, people."

Taking a couple tentative steps forward, Colonel Webber took in a deep breath.

"My name is Colonel Brianna Webber, I am the Commanding Officer of this vessel," began Webber as she took a couple pacing steps in front of the formation, their eyes following her as she moved. "I just wanted to take a moment to welcome you aboard the _Savitri_."

"Now, first thing you may have noticed, especially those of you coming up from the surface, is that it's a bit harder to breath," continued Webber, her statement eliciting a few subtle nods from a few of the personnel. "As a damage control measure against fire, we have reduced both oh-two content and atmospheric pressure, still within norms, but you might want to refrain from any heavy exertion for the next few days while you adjust."

"Second, while we have posted as many signs as possible throughout the ship to help you find your way, I ask that you keep your translators on you at all times."

"Lastly, while I understand some of you might be tempted to wander, I nevertheless expect you to understand that there are areas of this ship that are strictly off-limits," said Webber firmly. "This is as much for your own safety as anything. Am I understood?"

"Affirmative, Colonel Webber," answered McQueen evenly as he cast a stern gaze out towards his personnel, his eyes zeroing in on Hawkes most especially.

"Good," grinned Webber as she glanced over and waved another man over.

"This is Captain Golan, my Operations Officer," began Webber as the man stepped up. "He will take you and your people to your berthing area, Colonel."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Commanding Officer's Quarters  
><strong>**6 hours later**

"Have you and your people settled in, Colonel McQueen?" asked Webber as she casually motioned over towards one of the chairs arrayed in front of her desk.

"Yes, they have," replied McQueen as he slowly lowered himself into the chair. "The thinner air is going to take some getting used to, but I must admit that the accommodations are somewhat more spacious than I'm accustomed to."

"I take it this isn't your first time aboard a warship, then?" grinned Webber as she casually unfastened the top button of her tunic and leaned back in her own chair.

"I've spent the better part of the last fifteen years aboard ship," said McQueen, his own lips curling into a subtle grin. "Have to admit, though, I'm having a bit of difficulty wrapping my head around the fact that the _Savitri_ is one of the 'smaller' vessels in your fleet; she's certainly bigger than anything I've shipped out on before."

"Don't take it personal, Colonel," sighed Webber as she looked over and met his gaze. "From what IFOR has told us, your people only began fielding an interstellar fleet a little under two decades ago. Our people just have…"

Pausing, Webber's expression faded a bit.

"… just _had_ more experience," continued Webber, a somewhat dejected tone creeping into her voice.

His curiosity somewhat piqued by the subtle change in her tone, McQueen watched Webber for a moment.

"Do you mind if I ask what they were like?" he asked simply.

"What, the Colonies?"

Gently nodding his head, McQueen continued to gauge Webber's countenance as her expression took on a somewhat distant quality.

"From what I can tell, the Twelve Colonies weren't all that different from Earth, really," sighed Webber, a somewhat whimsical grin curling the edges of her lips. "You have nations, we had entire planets or moons, but the principle is basically the same. Each had its own culture, its own traditions, its own beauty."

"Is it too personal to ask which of the Colonies you come from, Colonel?" asked McQueen evenly.

Glancing over at McQueen, the barest hint of smirk remaining on Webber's lips.

"Aerilon," she replied, the long breath she let out as she spoke the word making it sound almost poetic. "My family had a homestead near the city of Gaoth, dairy land mostly, but my parents were prosperous enough that they were able to scrape together my tuition for college."

"They were farmers?" muttered McQueen, genuinely surprised as he watched Webber nod slightly.

"Six generations," nodded Webber. "I was the first in my family to go to college, the first since the war to go into the military, and even then the first officer."

Her gaze once again dropping away from McQueen for a moment, Webber's voice softened a bit.

"I'll never forget the look of pride on my father's face at commencement," muttered Webber. "He'd been drafted as a deck-hand aboard a ship called the _Brenik_ during the Cylon War, to the day he died he never once talked about it really, but I could still see the pride in his eyes when they pinned those Ensign pips to my collar."

Letting out a long sigh, her expression clearly somber over whatever memories were flowing through her thoughts, Colonel Webber slowly looked back over at McQueen.

"That's an interesting story," said McQueen, his tone somewhat questioning.

Canting her head slightly as she sat looking over at him, Webber took in a long, contemplative breath.

"Do you believe the Colonies are real, Colonel?" she asked pointedly.

Somewhat surprised at the directness of the question, McQueen sat up a bit in his seat.

"What makes you ask that, Colonel Webber?"

Sitting up again at her desk, Webber leaned forward a bit onto it, her fingers slowly interlocking as she held McQueen's gaze.

"I know there are a lot of people who have their doubts about us," began Webber, pausing to let out a long breath. "A lot of noise about how we're lying, or that we must be hiding something. To be honest, I can sympathize with that; before we found your world, Earth was just a myth that even some of the most die-hard religious zealots on Gemenon had trouble believing was real."

"I'm not sure where you are going with this, Colonel Webber," replied McQueen evenly as he looked back over at Webber.

"Colonel McQueen, this is an important mission, for your people and ours," began Webber as she continued to hold his gaze. "Whatever we find in enemy space could change the very course of this war; Commander Kelso believes it, _I_ believe it. That being the case, with the survival of our two societies potentially in the balance, we cannot afford to be blinded by paranoia or prejudice."

Taking in a deep breath, McQueen continued to stare across at Webber, his conversation with Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier, the underlying tone of suspicion in their voices playing through his own thoughts as he listened to her.

"Now you strike me as a pragmatic man," continued Webber. "I'd like to think I'm a fair judge of character, but I still want to put it out there so there's no confusion on where we stand with one another; once we're in harm's way, can I trust you?"

Somewhat taken aback at so direct a question, most especially one that seemed to verge on questioning his personal integrity, McQueen continued to meet her gaze with a determined countenance.

"I have been ordered to carry out a mission, Colonel," replied McQueen evenly. "And I _will_ carry that mission out."

Taking in a deep breath, Colonel Brianna Webber held McQueen's unflinching gaze for a few moments, her eyes narrowing a bit as she digested his answer, refined it for whatever nugget of truth she felt she could glean from it.

Very quickly, however, the barest hint of grin returned to her lips as she slowly reached over towards the upper drawer of her desk.

To McQueen's genuine surprise, he watched as she produced two shot glasses.

"I hope you don't mind, but I contacted Admiral Ross a few days ago," began Webber as she slowly pulled a bottle from the drawer as well. "Since we're going to be working together, I thought it might help ease things a bit if I had a bit of 'home' here for you."

With that, Webber offered the bottle over to McQueen.

"Highland Twenty-Five," muttered McQueen, the barest hint of grin curling the edge of his lips as he held the bottle and read the label.

"He said it was one of your preferred brands," grinned Webber as she gently slid the glasses out towards him.

"That it is," replied McQueen as he eyed the two glasses.

"I think we spare one shot, Colonel," said Webber as she seemed to read the hesitance in McQueen's eyes. "Mission doesn't start until tomorrow morning."

Taking in a deep breath, McQueen gently rolled the bottle in his fingers as he met Webber's gaze. Then, with an almost quiet enthusiasm, he opened the bottle and gently poured two neat shots.

Taking up her glass as McQueen slowly set the bottle back down onto the desk, Webber casually rose to her feet, McQueen following suit a moment later.

"Forgive me, I've never been very creative when it comes to toasts," smirked Webber as she held up her glass.

"Then if I may, Colonel?" began McQueen as he likewise lifted his glass.

"Please."

"May noise never excite us to halt, or confusion reduce us to defeat."

Nodding her head slightly in approval, Webber clinked her glass gently against McQueen's, and then the two of them very quickly downed the shots.

* * *

><p><strong>Residence of Michael Lane<br>****Queensridge Community  
><strong>**Las Vegas, Nevada**

With a long, tired sigh, Michael Lane tossed his keys down onto the kitchen counter.

Glancing around his empty kitchen, his eyes quickly settled onto the well-stocked liquor cabinet on the far side, the deep amber liquids within the meticulously sorted bottles seeming to beckon to his frayed perceptions that they offered at least a moment's respite from the crushing frustrations pushing down upon his mind.

Reaching up, he tugged at his tie, loosening his businessman's noose enough to unfasten the top button of his shirt as he made his way across the kitchen, the heels of his Salvatore Ferragamo's echoing a bit as they hit the hard tiles.

As he arrived at the cabinet, Lane reached out and took hold of one of the fine crystal glasses, their gentle clinking echoing a bit off the walls. Retrieving one of his favored brands of bourbon, Lane eye-balled a shots-worth into the glass and then set the bottle down with a slight thump on the wooden surface of the cabinet top.

Gazing down at the glass for a moment, his mind weighed the measure of liquor, calculating from experience just how hard the alcohol would land on his empty stomach.

Taking in a deep breath, he then slowly rotated his head, the gentle cracks in his tension ridden neck echoing a bit within his own ears.

His gaze once again settling on the glass, Lane retrieved the bottle and poured still more bourbon into the glass until it was practically brimming with an amount sufficient to likely have him asleep within the hour when mated to his current level of mental and physical exhaustion.

Indeed, so engrossed was he with the mental calculations and recalculations of just how much alcohol he would need to little more than knock himself out for the night that Lane was completely unaware of the form slowly making its way up behind him.

So it was that as Lane was slowly lifting the glass to his lips, an icy chill started crawling along the length of his spine as he felt the cold touch of steel at the base of his neck.

"How the hell did you get into my house?" sputtered Lane as he fought to maintain at least enough control over his now-subtly quaking hand to keep from dropping his coveted glass of bourbon.

"I was skipping across fortified international borders on black-ops while you were still trying to get your first sniff of a girl's panties, Lane," muttered a hard-edged voice that at that moment did little to quell Lane's disquiet. "You think a six-foot stucco wall, some rent-a-cops at the gate and the glorified car-alarm you have on your house is going to stop me?"

Glass still locked within his grip, Lane very slowly turned around, doing his best to put up a façade of utter calm as he quickly found himself staring down the decidedly intimidating barrel of the pistol that only a moment before had warmed itself against his neck.

As he focused his eyes on the face on the other side of that weapon, Lane then made a very deliberate show of feigned nonchalance as he downed almost half of the contents of his glass.

"What the hell are you doing here, Dillinger?" wheezed Lane, the bourbon having burned more going down than he would have liked as he worked feverishly to save face.

Slowly dropping the pistol in his hand away from Lane's face, Dillinger took in a long breath, his eyes narrowing a bit as the edge of his lips curled into a smirk.

"You can save the bravado crap, Lane, I know you're on the verge of pissing your pants right now," said Dillinger, the smirk on his face widening a bit.

Then, without another word, Dillinger very deliberately reached over, took the glass from Lane's hand, and much to the muted consternation of Aero-Tech's CEO, downed the remaining liquor with hardly a noticeable flinch.

"Pretty smooth," muttered Dillinger as he somewhat unceremoniously shoved the empty glass back into Lane's still-outstretched hand.

"Glad you approve," groaned Lane as he set the empty glass down heavily onto the liquor cabinet. "But you haven't answered my question; what the hell are you doing in my home?"

Pausing, Dillinger looked over at Lane coolly, the smirk on his face fading quickly as he once again raised the pistol in his hand.

"Maybe I'm here to kill you," said Dillinger as he leaned forward, pressing the barrel hard against Lane's forehead.

"If you were here to kill me you would have simply shot me while my back was turned," countered Lane, closing his eyes to the pain elicited by the barrel pressing against his forehead.

"Honor amongst thieves," said Dillinger as his thumb gently cocked the pistol's hammer back, the metallic clicks of the action echoing a bit in Lane's ears. "Maybe I just wanted to see the look in your eyes as I splattered your brains all over the wall."

"I thought our 'benefactors' didn't want any uncomfortable questions being asked right now," sputtered Lane, his heart all but pounding within his chest as a bead of sweat crawled down the side of his cheek. "Don't you think my assassination will spark a lot of those uncomfortable questions?"

"Maybe they don't care anymore," countered Dillinger flatly as he held the weapon steady. "Or maybe they just don't like that you've continued to dig around in the UMO files."

Slowly opening his eyes again, Lane actually managed to smirk a bit as he looked over at Dillinger.

"Is that what this is about?" muttered Lane, his voice somewhat raspy from a dry throat. "Are the Silicates worried I might find something in UMO they don't want me to know?"

"At our last 'get-together' you were told to wait for instructions," countered Dillinger flatly. "UMO is a done deal; the Silicates have everything they need from those files."

"Maybe _I'm_ not done with them," said Lane as he held Dillinger's gaze. "The information in those files…"

"Could cause a lot of 'uncomfortable questions' to be asked if any of a dozen agencies catch wind of what's in them," snapped Dillinger as he pressed the barrel still harder against Lane's forehead. "Part of waiting for instructions is keeping a low profile, something that you've failed to do by continuing to dig into UMO; I've read the files, I know what's in them."

"You've read them?" sputtered Lane, his brow furrowing a bit as Dillinger finally pulled back on the barrel a bit. "When did you read those files?"

"When you originally gave them to me for safekeeping, dumbass," smirked Dillinger. "What, you think I don't take a peek whenever the head of a multi-trillion dollar conglomerate gives me something to cache away?"

With a huff, Dillinger once again dropped the pistol down to his side as he stood gently shaking his head.

"So you know about…"

"Yes, I know about 'it'," muttered Dillinger. "UMO makes that crap you leaked out about the Chig crash at Roswell look like nothing."

"Then you can understand why…"

"What I understand is that the Silicates don't want to risk that information getting out," replied Dillinger evenly, the gun in his hand still very much the proverbial elephant in the room in Lane's mind. "It could throw a serious monkey wrench in their plans, and they just won't have that at this stage; you keep digging, someone's gonna take notice if they haven't already."

Letting out a long sigh, Dillinger actually turned his back to Lane and took a couple tentative steps towards the countertop at the center of the kitchen.

Reflexively, Lane began stretching his hand out, intent on slipping his fingers around the bourbon bottle.

"You try and hit me with that bottle you'll just be giving me a reason to put a bullet in you, Lane," muttered Dillinger, his back still to Lane as he reached into his pocket.

Pausing, Lane slowly withdrew his fingers from the bottle.

"Do yourself a favor, Lane," began Dillinger as he pulled what Lane quickly realized was a flash drive from his pocket and held it up. "Pour yourself another glass, then read what's on this drive."

Dillinger then tossed the drive down with a slight clatter onto the countertop next to Lane's keys.

"What if I don't?" muttered Lane as he continued to eye Dillinger's back.

"Our 'benefactors' were quite specific," began Dillinger as he held the gun up in the air, giving it a slight waggle as he did so. "If you don't follow their instructions on that drive then you are of no use; you're cushy life will be forfeit."

Then, without anything further, Dillinger walked off along the hallway towards the front door.

As the sound of the front door opening and closing echoed back along the hallway, Lane stood staring at the flash drive resting on the kitchen counter.

Letting out a long sigh, Lane reached out with his hand, retrieved the bourbon and glass, filled it once again to the brim, this time not turning his back to the hallway.

Then, glass in hand, he again eyed the drive warily, taking a tentative sip of bourbon as he did so.

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Zero-Three-Seven<br>****Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector  
><strong>**Day 7**

Although taking in a deep breath served to quell the butterflies fluttering about in the pit of her stomach, Captain Shane Vansen doubted anything would wipe the grin from her face.

Settling back into the seat of the Colonial Raptor, she watched with barely restrained glee as the small ship ascended on the elevator pad from the hangar deck level to the vast flight deck.

Although they had been loitering about in Chig space for a week now, this was the first time Shane herself would actually be sitting side-seat on one of the recon sorties.

Fidgeting a bit against the restraints holding her firmly to the seat, just about every sense Shane had was drinking in the entirety of the experience; the rumble of the small ship's engines, the gentle rocking of the elevator ride, the feel of the Colonial-issue flight suit encasing her body.

For the first time in a long time, she was able to totally lose herself in the moment.

As her eyes continued to draw in every detail of the pilot's movements, Vansen listened through her translator earpiece as the pilot called for and received final clearance for departure.

With a slight hop, the Raptor popped up from its place above the elevator pad and began sailing off down along the length of the flight deck, within moments sailing clear into open space.

Savoring the feel of inertia pressing against her body as the pilot executed a wide turn to port, Vansen watched as it passed beneath a quartet of patrolling Colonial Vipers, then over top of the massive bulk of the escorting Colonial Battlecruiser _Enceladus_.

"You ready for the jump, Captain?" asked a voice filtering in through her translator earpiece.

Her lips locked in an almost permanent smile, Vansen glanced over at the pilot, Ensign Kendal Munez.

"Are you kidding?" chuckled Vansen. "I've been waiting all week for this."

Chuckling a bit himself, Munez returned his attention to the flight panel.

Realistically, Vansen knew she ought to be taking the mission a bit more seriously than she was; currently they were all very deep inside what had always been one of the enemy's most heavily fortified and contested areas of space. Any doubts as to the very real dangers they were potentially facing could be quickly dispelled by the impressive amount of ordnance strapped to the Raptor.

Nevertheless, much as she had during their flight training stint at Nellis, Shane was surrendering herself a bit to the simple joy of just being in the air again, perhaps even more-so now since she was not in command but little more than an observer out on a proverbial joyride.

"How we doing back there, Athari?" called Munez as he looked back out at the endless sea of stars beyond the canopy.

"Coordinates set, jump drive is spooled," replied Athari from her station aft.

"Copy that, initiate jump," sighed Munez as he settled back into his seat a bit.

"Clock is running; jumping in three, two, one…"

As everything beyond the canopy in front of her disappeared in a bright flash of light, Vansen blinked her eyes a couple times to readjust as she took in a few deep breaths to quell the hint of nausea that momentarily gripped her. According to the Colonials, it was a normal physiological reaction, one that abated over time as the body became accustomed to the experience of a faster-than-light jump.

For her part, in spite of the unpleasantness of nausea, Vansen almost hoped she never got 'used' to jumping; she hated the idea of the whole experience losing its luster of excitement.

Nevertheless, with the surrounding space now devoid of the relative protection of the rest of the group and its fighter cover, Vansen wrangled together some measure of control over her excitement; in very concrete terms, Shane and her two Colonial compatriots were very much on their own at the ass-end of harm's way.

"Jump complete," muttered Munez as he too blinked his eyes rapidly a couple of times.

"Beginning DRADIS sweep," called Athari.

Taking in a long breath, Munez casually motioned over at the display screen at the center of the Raptor's flight console.

"Time to see if anyone is out there," he muttered as Shane likewise began watching the screen expectantly.

Although the _Savitri_ and _Enceladus_ had quite deliberately jumped feet first into an area of space that was practically the doorstep of the Chig home system, most of the recon missions conducted over the last few days had turned up very little in the way of enemy activity; a few enemy fighter patrols, a lone transport, but not much else.

It wasn't for lack of trying; Colonial Raptors had been staking out just about every major wormhole and enemy supply route mapped out by IFOR military intelligence over the course of the war.

Still, for all the helter-skelter chaos the Chigs had sewn throwing the IFOR fleets out of their territory only a couple months back, it now seemed as if they had virtually abandoned most if not all of their forward positions.

So it was that as several icons appeared at the edge of the screen, Vansen couldn't help her heart leaping a bit into her throat.

"Contact," snapped Athari, her tone just a few excited octaves higher than it had been a moment ago. "Correction, multiple contacts, bearing three-two-zero carom two-two-five, range twenty-two hundred."

Reflexively looking up from the screen, Vansen's eyes probed out into the inky depths of space beyond the canopy. Rationally speaking, this deep in space, this far from an illuminating star it was unlikely she'd see much if anything with the naked eye; Chig warships and fighters had little in the way of exterior illumination that might be seen at this distance, still, it was a primal reflex that was hard to suppress.

For his own part, Munez continued to watch the screen, his fingers gently flexing themselves around the flight stick and throttle as he watched the screen continue to isolate each individual signature.

"What are we looking at, Athari?" he called, his own tone betraying a bit of tension.

"Signatures read as a dozen enemy capital warships, about four-dozen transports, destroyers, bombers, several squadrons of fighters," replied Athari evenly. "Looks like a convoy of some sort."

"Any indication they've turned to intercept us?" snapped Vansen, her eyes continuing to scan the depths of space beyond the canopy.

Objectively speaking, it really wasn't her place to ask that question; officially, she was an observer. Nevertheless, if Munez or Athari had any sort of objection to her making the query it didn't come through in their tone.

"I'm not reading any changes in course on any of the contacts," replied Athari evenly. "Either they don't see us or they don't really give a frak about us."

"Or maybe they're vectoring in some of the nasty stealth ships of theirs," countered Munez as he cast a glance over at his radiological detection meter.

"Nothing showing up so far on rad-sensors," said Athari. "But wherever they're heading, they're moving at a pretty good clip."

And it was at that moment that something happened that Shane hadn't in any way expected.

"Orders, Captain?" muttered Munez as he looked across to Vansen.

Her voice catching in her throat somewhat, Vansen slowly looked back over to Munez, the barest hint of dumbfounded smirk on her face.

The question held a twinge of utter absurdity for her; there she was, outfitted in a Colonial flightsuit, admittedly sporting her actual Marine Corps rank insignia on the collar, but nevertheless still aboard a ship with which she had about as much familiarity as a passenger on a rollercoaster has with the car they're in, and _he_ was asking what _her_ orders were?

Hell, part of the reason she had jumped at the chance to accompany the Colonial mission into Chig space was to stall for time against all the pressure she was getting from Colonel McQueen about resuming her former place as leader of the Five-Eight, a mantle of responsibility she was loath to take back up from West.

And yet, in that moment, with Munez's simple query, Shane couldn't help but feel as though fate itself was hell-bent on putting her back in command.

Taking in a deep, steadying breath, Vansen slowly looked back down at the myriad of icons on the screen.

"Well, we're out here on a recon mission," she muttered as she once again met Munez's gaze. "I say we risk it and see where they're going."

* * *

><p><strong>Boeing Aerospace Assembly Complex<br>****Everett, Washington**

Odd as it seemed, former United States Marine Corps space aviator Vanessa Damphousse had always disliked travelling by air.

It wasn't that she was afraid to fly, far from it; she just preferred to avoid the intrusive rigors of airport security if she could.

So it was that she could hardly miss the irony that her new position with Boeing required her to endure something tantamount to an electronic colonoscopy every morning, an experience that made airport security seem like clumsy teenage foreplay by contrast.

"Morning, Bob," muttered Phousse as she cast a sardonic smirk over at the decidedly stern looking private security contractor manning the full body scanner.

Bob didn't say anything in reply.

Bob _never_ said anything in reply.

In reality, she didn't even know 'Bob's' real name, she'd simply started calling him that when he'd laconically refused to offer up his real name when she somewhat naively asked him what it was on her first day.

Letting out a slight huff, Damphousse stepped into the security scanner, to her mind's eye, a device that looked like nothing so much as a microwave oven on steroids.

It took about a minute for the device to scan her, the stale warmth of the air and the droning hum of the machinery as it operated only deepening Phousse's suspicions that she was being surreptitiously cooked alive a few cells at a time.

More than just a scan to screen for weapons, the device was measuring a wide variety of biometrics; heart rate, body dimensions, retinal patterns, just about anything and everything up to and including a chemical analysis of the perfume she was wearing and checking those readings against her profile in a database, all to make sure she was who she said she was.

The only bright spot to the whole affair was that she had very quickly caught on to the general practice of many other employees of not bringing anything along with her to work; abandoning the use of a purse had cut her time going through security in half.

"Done," snapped 'Bob' tersely as the hum of the machinery abated.

Emerging out the other side of the scanner, Phousse stepped over and retrieved her security pass and credentials from one of 'Bob's' equally brusque cohorts and set about the rest of her day.

"Have a nice day, Bob," called Damphousse.

As always, 'Bob' didn't acknowledge the pleasantry, instead merely casting a stern glare over to the subsequent victim waiting in line behind her.

"Next."

Shaking her head slightly, Damphousse reached up and reattached her credentials to her blouse as she blended back into the small throng of people making their way deeper into the facility.

In reality, the security measures weren't unwarranted; in spite of Aero-Tech's predominance in the aerospace market over the years, Boeing was still involved with many highly sensitive military projects. As a result, anyone attempting to enter the facility was one way or another forced to contend with what amounted to a private army covering the grounds.

A heavily-armed, highly-trained private army.

For her part, Phousse was somewhat ambivalent about private military contractors. On the one hand, the industry gave a lot of grunts coming home from the front a very well-paying job once they transitioned out. The military had provided them with a skill-set; she could hardly begrudge veterans finding a way to continue exercising that skill-set without the brutal necessity of pitting them against a Chig or Silicate.

But what she was somewhat less comfortable with, indeed what remained the predominant controversy with most people these days, was just how many PMC's were staffed by InVitro's cached out into the world when the InVitro platoons were dissolved near the end of the A.I. War.

The InVitro platoons as an institution had helped solidify a truly global and enduring undercurrent of prejudice against InVitros as a whole because, in the end, a vast majority of them had refused to fight against the Silicates. They'd refused to fight for abstract ideas like patriotism and loyalty, but a good many of them now seemed to have embraced the less-noble principle of fighting for money.

For Phousse, it was a somewhat bitter pill to swallow after having spent most of the last two years fighting alongside Hawkes and Colonel McQueen, two men who to her mind would always represent some of the best of what InVitros, what people in general, could be.

Hawkes, McQueen.

West, Vansen, Wang.

It didn't take much for Phousse's mind to wander back to her old friends, she missed them all dearly.

It had been well over a week now since she'd last heard from any of them; hardly required much puzzling on her part to figure out they'd likely accompanied the Colonials on their mission to, well, wherever it was they'd gone; deep into Chig territory most likely.

Information about the war was sketchy at best here on the homefront, conjecture mostly. All anyone like her, anyone outside 'the know', really knew with any certainty was that two Colonial warships had departed from Earth orbit.

Considering the fervor it had raised world-wide when the UN decided to grant the Colonial petition to settle, one could hardly blame anyone in the government for remaining tight-lipped about anything regarding them. Everything about the Colonials, who they were, where they came from, had a tendency to stir some very deep passions in a great many people.

For her part, Phousse did her best to steer clear of all the controversy, most especially the proverbial water-cooler debates, because in the end she felt she had a perspective many others didn't, a perspective most people had trouble taking at face value as she did; if it wasn't for the arrival of the Colonials, she would still be trapped in that hellish POW camp on Kazbek.

In so many ways, both figurative and concrete, if it wasn't for the Colonials she wouldn't be where she was now.

"Morning, Vanessa."

Grinning slightly, Damphousse glanced back over her shoulder as one of her co-workers, Leonard Sheldon, jogged the last few steps to catch up to her.

"How're you today, Leonard?" asked Damphousse simply as she watched him take a sip from the Tulley's coffee cup in his hand.

"Good, real good," grinned Leonard. "You?"

"Warm bed, full night's rest, breakfast that didn't come cold out of a can, can't complain," replied Damphousse evenly.

Although Leonard seemed to nod a bit at her reply, it was clear from the somewhat quizzical expression on his face that he didn't fully understand why those things had any particular importance.

Civilians often didn't.

Then again, Damphousse had to remind herself that inspite of the oft-quoted mantra 'once a Marine, always a Marine', she was in reality a civilian now too.

Then again, she'd also fudged a bit about getting a full night's rest.

Truth be told, no matter how comfortable the luxuriously fluffy mattress was in her new apartment, Phousse knew she'd likely never be able to get through a night again without waking up from some Chig-inspired nightmare. Treatment of post-traumatic stress may have come a long way, but fighting seven-foot tall aliens who made a habit out of hacking apart the dead bodies of your friends and comrades was the kind of experience that tended to leave a permanent impression on the psyche.

Glancing over at Leonard, Phousse knew it was the kind of experience he would simply never understand by explanation alone. For a moment, she couldn't help by envy that experiential naiveté.

"Today's an exciting day, huh?" beamed Leonard, a touch of barely restrained glee in his eyes as he took another sip from the cup in his hand.

"I suppose it is," muttered Damphousse as she glanced over at him.

And for a man like Leonard Sheldon, it most likely was. Leonard was a theoretical physicist recruited away from a cushy experimental grant project at Caltech. Having spent years working on long equations the likes of which made Damphousse's head hurt, Leonard had been sniped away by Boeing to work on the company's reverse engineering project of one of the ships turned over by the Colonials.

Today was the first day they were actually being granted access to the craft itself.

Although Damphousse was by no means an intellectual slouch, her undergraduate degree in Nuclear Physics and Masters in Engineering easily attested to that, there was a whole new school of physics that had sprung into being quite literally overnight with the arrival of the Colonials that for guys like Leonard Sheldon was as titillating as having a 'sure thing' with a supermodel on prom night.

So it was that as the rest of the team assembled in their work area, Leonard kept pacing, his excitement about as restrained as that of a child waiting outside the gates on their first trip to Disneyland.

For Damphousse, the grand moment when they finally made their way into the restricted hangar space where the vessel was being kept was somewhat more akin to an anticlimax than she'd expected.

While Leonard stood beside her, an almost infantile squeal escaping him as he first laid eyes upon the craft, Damphousse couldn't help but note how particularly ordinary the ship actually looked.

The general layout of the craft was certainly different enough; a long, generally pear-shaped cylindrical body with a large sail-like projection at one end and large articulated clamshell vanes at the other, and yet the craft looked exactly like what the Colonials described it to be; a civilian passenger liner.

With windows arrayed along the hull, brightly colored livery along the length of the craft, even the simple stairwell leading up into the ship, all of it reminiscent of any of a dozen commercial aircraft designs churned out by Boeing from this very facility over the last century.

Nevertheless, however ordinary the craft looked on the outside, Damphousse knew its real secrets were within; the faster-than-light drive system that offered the peoples of Earth not only the means to definitively end over two years of brutal interstellar warfare, but beyond that the promise of truly probing out into the greater mysteries of the galaxy.

As that thought passed through her mind, the idea of not just what the ship's secrets might yield in war, but perhaps offer in peace, that Phousse finally felt the tantalizing tingle of excitement creep along her spine.

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Junior Officer's Quarters**

As the credits began to scroll across the screen, Lieutenant Daren Cortez tapped the eject button on the side of his personal laptop. As the disk carrier popped open with a slight audible click, he removed his well-worn copy of _The Tauron Line_ and gently placed it back in its place next to the three dozen other movies he'd been, in retrospect, foresighted enough to bring along when he'd been assigned to _Galactica_ for her shakedown.

Although at this point he'd watched them all enough times to practically recite every line from memory, considering the relative dearth of other recreational activities available, he considered himself lucky to have something to do with his off-time other than lie in his bunk staring at the bulkheads.

For a few minutes, he lay there in his bunk flipping through the other movies in his truncated library, a long sigh escaping him as he decided he wasn't in the mood to watch any of the others for the hundredth time. Closing his disk carrier, he set it down on the deck beside his bunk and simply stared at the screen.

At one point he'd tried his hand at writing, typing up a number of short stories, even some fanfiction to shows that with the destruction of the Colonies would now have no end. What he soon realized, however, was that writing about the things he knew about, life in the fleet, back on the Colonies, even in a fictional sense, only served to remind him quite acutely of what had been lost.

Boredom was bad enough, but boredom mixed with lament was a recipe for misery.

With a resigned sense of finality, he closed his laptop and gently set it down on the deck beside the disk carrier and simply lay there staring up at the ceiling.

Lacking any distractions beyond the gentle rumble of the ships engines, it wasn't long before his thoughts settled in on the one longing more intense than his boredom; sex.

The one great benefit of being aboard a ship as large as _Galactica_ was that as a member of the senior CIC staff Cortez didn't have to bunk with other junior officers and was thus able to avoid the embarrassment and social derision that usually accompanied being caught engaging in some self-love.

Closing his eyes to the sound-dampening tiles arrayed overhead, Cortez took in a deep breath as he reached down and unbuttoned his trousers.

But before Cortez had settled on which member of the crew he was going to fantasize about this time, his attention was called back to reality by a low alarm. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he kicked his feet over the side of his bunk and looked over at the source of the alarm; the computer terminal mounted against the bulkhead.

Curious, Cortez fastened back up his trousers and stepped over to the panel, at first uncertain what the alarm meant.

Although it had been several months now since the Cylon genocide against the Colonies, Commander Kelso had opted against having the ship-wide computer network aboard _Galactica_ reconnected, thus most panels like the one in his quarters didn't have access to most of the core systems. One thing the Commander had allowed him to do, however, was reconnect his particular terminal to a few non-essential systems in order to continue his work on locating the Twelve Colonies.

In conjunction with Major Macedo's team, Cortez had cobbled together a program which had spent most of the last six months automatically analyzing the copious astrometric data being taken in by the ship's various x-ray and optical telescopes.

While Cortez had initially been quite hopeful that the program would be able to identify any number of known pulsars or other navigational markers and triangulate their position, thus far the effort had come to naught, so much so that he'd quite literally left the program to run on its own several weeks ago and pretty much forgotten about it.

So it was that as Cortez stepped up to the panel he was genuinely surprised to see that the program had apparently identified enough known objects to return a rough positive solution for the location of the Colonies.

For a moment, Cortez felt a rush of excitement.

It was hardly pin-point; from the number of digits in the position solution it could still be off by as much as a sector or two, but it was still a hell-of-a-lot better than nothing.

But as he continued to stare at the position solution, Cortez noted something particularly, even distressingly odd about the result.

In order to facilitate the location of known stellar points, the program had been designed to account for stellar drift, the measureable movement of stars and other phenomena over time. By essentially rewinding that movement, the program had apparently lined up enough stellar markers to finally spit out the solution.

What Cortez was having trouble wrapping his head around, however, was just how much time the program had calculated as having passed since _Galactica_'s original charts were generated back on the Colonies; over one-hundred and fifty thousand years.

"That has to be a mistake," muttered Cortez, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he scowled at the results. "That just _can't_ fraking be right…"

* * *

><p><strong>Dolphin Island<br>****Office of President Paul Bess**

"Thank you, Sal," said President Bess as he hung up the landline receiver.

Looking out past the not-so-insignificant accumulation of reports, official memoranda and other assorted bureaucratic detritus on his desk, President Bess was somewhat bemused to see Commander Kelso leaning back comfortably in one of the relatively plush chairs, his eyes closed.

"Commander?" he muttered simply.

"I'm awake, Mr. President," replied Kelso, opening his visibly bloodshot eyes just enough to glance back over at Bess.

"I take it you haven't been sleeping well?"

Slowly straightening back up in his seat, Commander Kelso let out a long sigh from the effort as he reached up and massaged the knot in his neck.

"I've got over sixty-four hundred men and women loitering deep behind enemy lines right now," muttered Kelso, as he glanced over and eyed the bowl of fruit resting amid the piles of paperwork on the President's desk. "Sleep is a luxury until they come back."

Noting the attention Kelso was giving to the bowl, the President cracked a wry grin as he reached over and nudged it closer to the noticeably tired Commander, Kelso in turn offering the slightest nod of appreciation as he retrieved an apple and took a loud, crunchy bite from it.

"Don't make it last," muttered Bess as he looked back over at the landline receiver. "Our 'guest' just touched down over at the airfield; car will be bringing him over shortly."

"When did we get a car?" snorted Kelso, casting a somewhat curious glance back over at President Bess.

"Two days ago," replied the President simply as he absently sifted through a few reports.

"Then with all due respect, Mister President, any particular reason I still had to walk in from the airfield this morning?" smirked Kelso as he took another bite.

"Don't take it personal, Commander," chuckled Bess. "It's a surplus military utility vehicle; functional, but not exactly luxurious."

"Still, this 'guest' must be pretty important to rate riding in our one and only car," muttered Kelso as he finished off the apple with a few quick bites. "Any idea who they are?"

"Not exactly sure, defense contractor of some sort I think," replied Bess as he began affixing his signature to several of the pages before him. "Whoever they are, though, they must have some clout; Secretary General Hayden herself contacted me about meeting with him."

"Seems like a bit of a security risk to agree to a meeting without vetting his credentials, Mister President," noted Kelso lightly as he casually tossed the apple core into a nearby trash can.

"Granted, but pragmatically speaking, unless the Secretary General is in the habit of vouching for assassins we should be okay," countered Bess as he slowly leaned back in his seat. "But back to our own people for a moment, unless I miss my guess, the courier Raptor ought to be checking in soon, shouldn't it?"

"Came in around twenty-two hundred last night, actually," replied Kelso as he casually massaged the bridge of his nose. "Recon birds have tracked a few convoys so far, including some pretty significant enemy hardware, but the picture on what they're up to is still far from complete."

"Have we suffered any casualties?" asked the President evenly.

"Thankfully, no," replied Kelso, his tone genuinely grateful.

"And what about Code Blues?" asked Bess as he very deliberately held the Commander's gaze for a moment.

"None," sighed Kelso as his hand dropped back down with a slight thump on the chair's armrest. "According to our onboard guests, everything they've tracked so far belongs to the Chigs. If 'they' are out there, they're still sticking to the shadows."

"I don't know whether I should be comforted by that, or concerned," muttered Bess as he resumed scrawling his signature onto the pages before him.

For his own part, Kelso knew exactly how he felt on the matter, and it was anything but comforted. All the evidence they had in hand, the computer code in the Silicate transmission, the enemy obtaining FTL technology, even the 'evolution' of the Silicates to a more Centurionesque form, all of it seemed to scream that 'they', the Cylons, were most definitely out there.

But where?

As his tired mind continued to churn with that foreboding, almost repressively omnipresent question, the droning sound of an approaching vehicle outside drew Kelso back to the moment.

Considering how thin the walls actually were on the prefabricated shelter being used as the Office of the President, very little going on outside went unheard, especially not the sound of a vehicle's tires crunching along gravel or the gentle squeal of its brakes as it came to a stop.

As he straightened up a bit more in his seat, a somewhat self-conscious attempt to look more like the commanding officer of all Colonial military forces that he was, Kelso listened to the faint sound of footsteps on that same gravel coming closer to the entryway, muted voices exchanging words followed a moment later by a series of hard knocks at the door.

"Enter," called the President simply as he set his pen down on top of pages in front of him.

"Sergeant Bowman here, Mister President," stated the Marine in full combat gear as he stepped in. "I have a Mister Michael Lane here to see you, sir."

"See him in, Sergeant," replied President Bess as he slowly rose from his seat, slipping the ear piece for a translator into place as he did so, Commander Kelso in turn taking the President's lead and following suit.

As Bowman stepped back outside, he casually waved his hand bidding a man in a finely cut suit in through the doorway.

In spite of his lingering fatigue, Commander Kelso focused his attention on trying to get a sense of the man, to gauge him. Although he was sporting a smile that seemed genial enough, there was something about the way he moved, how he carried himself that seemed to be telegraphing some underlying intent, a thinly veiled impatience and haughtiness that prompted, however subtly, an immediate sense of unease in Kelso. The fact that the man seemed somewhat obliquely oblivious to Kelso's presence as he made an immediate beeline for the President, avoiding even the most cursory eye contact with him, didn't raise the quality of that appraisal either.

Then again, maybe his own tension and weariness was just making him a bit paranoid.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mister Lane," began President Bess evenly as he extended his hand.

"I'm just glad you were able to meet me on such short notice," replied Lane, his voice actually managing to sound a bit genuine as he clasped on to the President's hand in a brisk shake.

"This is Commander Sean Kelso, commanding officer of our military forces," continued Bess as he motioned over at Kelso.

"Commander," muttered Lane simply as he likewise exchanged a somewhat more perfunctory handshake with Kelso.

"Please, take a seat, Mister Lane," said Bess as he motioned over towards the other seat arrayed in front of his desk.

"Thank you," muttered Lane simply as he set his briefcase down beside the chair, reached up to gently adjust his own translator earpiece, and slowly lowered himself into the seat, a long breath escaping him as he did so.

"Well, Mister Lane, since you are the one who asked Secretary General Hayden to arrange this meeting, I'll let you start," said President Bess as he settled back into his own chair.

"Well, simply put, I've brought something I'm certain will be of great interest to you," replied Lane, his genial grin devolving somewhat into a subtly conceited smirk as he spoke.

"We were told you work for a defense contractor, Mister Lane," began Commander Kelso evenly, as much an attempt on his part to force Lane into more fully acknowledging his presence as anything. "Are you here to negotiate some sort of procurement contract?"

"I'm the Chief Executive Officer of Aero-Tech, Commander," countered Lane, his tone taking on a peculiar edge. "We're a bit more than just a 'defense contractor'; my company designed or built most of the warships and stations orbiting this planet."

"I'm sure Commander Kelso meant no offense, Mister Lane," muttered President Bess, his expression indicating that he too had picked up on the subtle edge in Lane's tone. "I'm sure you can understand, we've been fairly busy as of late, and Secretary General Hayden didn't give many specifics when she spoke with me about meeting with you."

"Then no offense taken, Mister Bess," replied Lane evenly as he reached down and picked up his briefcase. "But to be clear, no, I am not here to negotiate any sort of contract with your government."

"Then why are you here?" asked Bess simply as he watched Lane set the briefcase upon his lap and open it.

"Well, as I said, Aero-Tech has been leading the way over the last few decades advancing Earth's aerospace capabilities," began Lane as he reached into his briefcase and retrieved what appeared to be a compact laptop computer. "Not only did we develop most of the capital warships currently operated by IFOR, but prior to the war we were also responsible for Earth's colonial program."

Pausing, Lane opened the laptop and set it down onto the President's desk.

"As part of that effort, Aero-Tech launched a number of deep space probes," continued Lane as the laptop went through its boot cycle. "Regrettably, the Chigs made it a point of chasing most of them down in order to deprive us of intelligence early in the war, but they didn't get to all of them."

Pausing once again, Lane quickly tapped a few keys on the laptop.

"A few days ago, we received a data package from one of those probes," said Lane as he turned the laptop screen so both Kelso and the President could see it.

"What kind of data package?" asked Kelso evenly as he leaned forward a bit in his seat.

"This," sighed Lane as he slowly sat back in his seat, a plainly self-satisfied smirk creeping across his expression as the laptop began emitting a series of garbled voices.

At first, both the President and Commander Kelso were unclear about what it was they were supposed to find so intriguing about the recording. Taken at face value, it seemed to be nothing more than routine wireless traffic; overlapping voices relaying ship status reports, resupply requests, flight vector instructions, even some innocuous pilot banter.

But then, like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky, the true underlying meaning behind the garbled voices struck the two of them. As both the President and the Commander began staring intently at one another, Kelso slowly reached up and removed his translator earpiece.

With a cold tingle crawling its way along his spine, Kelso realized that even without the translator he was able to completely understand every voice, every word on the recording.

"Colonials," muttered President Bess, the barest hint of a grin curling the edges of his lips. "Those are _Colonial_ transmissions."

"Are you saying your probe has picked up another Colonial fleet out there?" asked Kelso pointedly, slipping his earpiece back into place as he looked Lane directly in the eye.

"Yes," replied Lane evenly.

As if to punctuate the point, both President Bess and Commander Kelso listened as one transmission in particular seemed to scream out for their attention from amid all the chatter.

"…Pegasus_, this is _Galactica_-Actual_…"

At that, Kelso practically leapt to his feet.

"Oh, my gods," muttered Kelso, a half-chuckle escaping him as he leaned in over the laptop. "I can't believe they fraking made it."

"Did your probe send back any data on how many ships are out there?" asked President Bess as he continued to listen intently to the recording.

"Analysis suggests at least three or four dozen," replied Lane. "We can't really be sure; our probe was still outside of direct LIDAR range with them when it sent back the data package."

"But was it able to get a position fix on them?" asked Kelso, a touch of impatience slipping into his tone.

With his smirk widening ever so slightly, Lane casually slipped his hand inside the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a simple sheet of paper.

"The probe was surveying HD-One-Zero-One-Five-Three-Nine, an unexplored planetary system along the far side border of the Ceres region when it picked up the signals," stated Lane as he handed the paper to Kelso. "I've taken the liberty of having my people translate the position to your coordinate system."

"How much do you know about that star system?" asked Kelso evenly as he glanced at the coordinates.

"Like I said; unexplored," replied Lane. "The data package included some information though; a single Class K star, half a dozen planets, mostly barren rocks from what we can tell, not much of significance."

"Well, the star system may be insignificant, but that area of space is," began Kelso as he glanced over to President Bess. "The Ceres region is well within enemy territory"

"Which means they could be on the verge of stumbling into a possible hornet's nest of enemy activity," noted Bess as he met the Commander's gaze.

"Not if I have anything to say about it they won't," muttered Kelso resolutely as he glanced once more at the coordinates.

* * *

><p>Without so much as a glance over at the driver, Michael Lane hopped out of the vehicle and began making his way back towards the Aero-Tech corporate jet waiting for him on the tarmac.<p>

Noting his approach, the pilot set to preparing the plane for takeoff, the gentle wind-up of the engines echoing out across the area as they built to a high-idle whine.

Reaching inside the breast of his suit, Lane pulled out his phone and tapped in the code to access his hidden directory and selected the number he needed. As the phone connected the call, he slowly brought it up to his ear.

"It's done," he said simply, terminating the call a moment later with a brusque tap on the touch screen.

Slipping the phone back into his coat pocket, he then reached into another and pulled out the translator device and earpiece he'd used during his meeting with Bess and Kelso.

Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs leading up into the plane, Lane glanced down at his expensive shoes, and then alternately tapped his feet against the side of the stairs, almost contemptuously knocking loose the thin layer of dust on them.

Then, with a decidedly self-satisfied smirk on his face, Lane dismissively tossed the translator and earpiece down onto the tarmac and entered the plane.

* * *

><p>"<em>When he contacted me about arranging a meeting with you, I had no idea this is what it was about<em>," began Secretary General Diane Hayden, genuine surprise evident in her tone even over the speakerphone. "_I suppose my first question is how do you gentlemen know the transmissions are authentic_?"

"The data Mister Lane brought was more than just audio recordings, Madame Secretary," replied President Bess evenly. "Included were numerous automated registry beacons and transponder codes; we've already had _Galactica_ run a check against our records, they would appear to be genuine."

"_But I thought you said the rest of your fleet was destroyed_," interjected IFOR Supreme Commander, General Pugachyov, on another line.

At that, President Bess looked over to Commander Kelso.

"Prior to our escape from the Colonies, we did have some information to indicate other ships survived the initial assault," began Commander Kelso, his eyes wandering down to the simple sheet of paper with the coordinates resting in his hand. "Mostly a rag-tag collection of civilian ships, transports, a few industrial vessels; they jumped away from Colonial territory before we could make contact, but at last report they were under the escort of at least one Battlestar."

"_So you're saying there are more of your military vessels in this second fleet as well_?" asked Hayden pointedly.

"From the transmissions and transponder codes at least two, actually," replied Kelso evenly. "_Galactica_ and _Pegasus_."

"Galactica?" muttered Pugachyov, his tone clearly a bit puzzled.

"The immediate predecessor to my own command, General," said Kelso. "She was about to be decommissioned when the attack hit, my ship was to be her replacement."

"_And this_ 'Pegasus'?" prodded Pugachyov.

"Another Battlestar," answered Kelso simply. "_Mercury_ Class, though; newer, more powerful."

"In any event, I'm sure we can all agree that having them at our disposal will be invaluable if the Chigs or Silicates attack," interjected President Bess. "I've ordered Commander Kelso to go out, make contact with this fleet and escort them back here to Earth."

At that, there was a definite pause from both Secretary General Hayden and General Pugachyov.

"_About that, President Bess_," began Hayden, her voice slow, hesitant. "_I have some concerns; how many more of your people could we possibly be looking at_?"

"Between the two Battlestars, about five thousand, Madame Secretary," answered President Bess evenly. "As for the civilian ships with them, it's hard to say; double that number easily, probably more."

"_Not to put too fine a point on it, gentleman, but world opinion might not react too well to more of your people settling on planet_," said Hayden, her tone plainly wary. "_However inaccurate it may be, it won't take much of a leap of logic for some to see this as potentially opening the floodgates to still more of your people settling on Earth_."

"With respect, Madame Secretary, this is the first solid evidence since our escape that there are in fact any other survivors," countered Kelso flatly, impatience creeping into his tone as he looked reflexively looked over at the speakerphone with disdain. "I for one am not of the mind to let them continue to just drift along in space, especially not that damned close to enemy territory."

"_Strictly speaking, Commander Kelso, neither am I_," replied Hayden, her own tone taking on a firm edge in response. "_But the decision to allow your people to settle on Dolphin Island was predicated on not only the material and military support you have offered to the war effort, but also on the belief that no others would be coming; this will be a tough sell to the hardliners who objected to allowing your people here in the first place_."

At that, an uncomfortable tension settled in. As his gaze slowly settled on President Bess, noted the unreadable countenance on his face, Commander Kelso wondered for a moment if he had perhaps overstepped his bounds by being so brusque with the Secretary General. But what Kelso had at first interpreted as ire he soon realized was in fact resolve.

"Madame Secretary, there is another side to this issue I was reluctant to bring up, but will if I must," began Bess evenly.

"_And that is_?"

"Under the terms of our alliance with your government, we are, in fact, still a sovereign nation, Madame Secretary," said Bess as he casually reached over and retrieved one of the apples from his fruit bowl and began to casually roll it in his fingers. "Geography has us on the same world, but we are _not_ politically subordinate to your authority. Strictly speaking, this is a courtesy call; I'm not asking for your permission to bring our people home."

"_That's a rather bold position to take, President Bess_," said General Pugachyov, a long sigh escaping him as he spoke. "_One that could produce a backlash, people who'd use this as an excuse to call for your ouster from Earth; are you prepared to take your people back out into the depths of space over this matter_?"

"The better question, General, is would those same people be as eager to see us take back the ships we've given you to reverse engineer in order to effect such an expulsion?" countered Bess. "Or perhaps more importantly, is your military prepared to see our warships go and continue this war on its own?"

"_Is that a threat_?" asked Secretary General Hayden flatly.

"Not a threat, Madame Secretary, just a reality," answered Bess evenly. "Our involvement in this war is based on protecting this world because we are also protecting our own people who live here. If we go, our people will still need protection from the Chigs and Silicates. We can't risk that they will simply ignore us if we leave, and we won't be able to spare any of our ships to help defend Earth."

"_I see_," muttered Hayden laconically.

As another uncomfortable pause settled in over the conversation, Commander Kelso continued to watch President Bess, gauging him, searching for some hint as to whether or not he was simply putting up a front on the issue, making a bluff.

If he was, Kelso certainly couldn't tell, moreover, he earnestly hoped the President wasn't just bluffing.

Perhaps even more so than the President, Kelso understood all too plainly the ramifications if the Colonials were forced to leave; simply put, it would be an unmitigated disaster if the Cylons showed their hand, both for Earth as well as for their own people.

But, he was also not content with letting the Battlestar _Galactica_, _Pegasus_ or any civilian vessels with them to continue wandering the endless tracts of open space, or more importantly, to simply sit idle while they sailed unaware into enemy space.

"We _are_ going to get them, Madame Secretary," interjected President Bess, finally breaking the silent stalemate.

"_Then go get your people, President Bess_," replied Secretary General Hayden evenly. "_We'll deal with the ramifications as they come. I just pray they don't undermine the efforts we have put into this alliance_."

"Nor I, Madame Secretary," sighed Bess. "I will keep you informed."

With that, President Bess hung up the line with a simple press of a button.

"Well that sounded promising," muttered Kelso sardonically. "You don't think they'll actually press for us to leave, do you?"

"Gods, I hope not," replied Bess evenly as he continued to roll the apple in his fingers. "In any event, as you are so fond of pointing out, all we can do is take this one step at a time."

Then, taking in a deep breath, President Bess looked back over at Kelso with the barest hint of a grin.

"Go get our people, Commander."

* * *

><p>Tired, yet imbued with fresh determination, Commander Kelso made his way along Heracles Highway towards the airfield, his pace but a few brisk steps short of a jog. And just as the path's namesake had when he temporarily took over the duty from Atlas, Commander Sean Kelso felt as though he carried the weight of the worlds, or one world at least, on his shoulders.<p>

Much as it seemed to have become his curse as of late, the more he searched for solutions to the abundant problems they already faced, all he seemed to find were more complications. This time, mercifully, the situation also seemed to come pre-packaged with a potential solution; the Battlestars _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_, two warships whose presence would tip the scales more in favor of their survival against the Chigs, Silicates, and more importantly, the Cylons.

But even as he continued to mull the situation over in his mind, Kelso also couldn't help but notice a distinct change in the general mood of the people milling about the area, a hushed undercurrent of whispers and sideways glances, hesitant but still clearly charged, and the attention was clearly aimed at him.

In spite of their best efforts to keep the information compartmentalized, had the people learned about the possible Cylon threat? If so, how badly had the facts been distorted as they made their way through the proverbial grapevine?

So palpable was the change in the community's overall mood that Commander Sean Kelso was in no particular way surprised to see the two individuals who'd emerged from another side street and were making their way towards him.

"Dad, Major Gaines," muttered Kelso as he came to a slow stop.

"Is it true?" asked Adrian Kelso simply, his tone borderline breathless as he stepped up to his son.

Pausing, Sean Kelso quickly glanced over at Gaines, for a moment uncertain whether she had in fact kept what he'd told her about the suspected Cylon activity a secret. For her part, Gaines' expression gave up nothing to convince him either way.

"Is 'what' true, Dad?" asked Sean somewhat hesitantly.

"Is it true there's another fleet of Colonial survivors?" prodded Adrian, his tone clearly hopeful.

Pausing, Sean Kelso looked back over towards the people around the area. With the arrival of Adrian and Major Gaines, most had entirely given up the slim pretense of not paying attention and were now quite blatantly watching him intently.

"Is that what this is about?" he muttered, the slightest hint of a smirk crossing his lips as he met the expectant gazes of a few of the people around the area. "My gods; it amazes me how fast the rumor mill runs around here."

Looking back over at Adrian and Major Gaines, Sean found them still waiting anxiously for a firm answer.

"Wait, how the hell..?" blurted Kelso, his voice trailing off with a slight chuckle as he internally deduced the most likely source of the information leak. "No, let me guess; Sergeant Bowman."

"You know better than most how thin the President's office walls are, sir," smirked Major Gaines. "If it helps, he was merely passing the information on to me as his…"

"Save it, Jordan," interrupted Sean, holding up his hand for a moment as he let out a long, though still somewhat bemused sigh.

Shaking his head slightly, Sean couldn't help the wry grin that soon curled the edges of his own lips as he continued to look into the expectant eyes of his father and Jordan Gaines.

"_Well_?" prodded his father impatiently.

"Nothing is confirmed yet," answered Sean evenly.

"Well, can I assume you're sending someone out there to get confirmation?" asked Adrian.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but right now the only things standing in the way of me doing precisely that are the two of you," replied Sean as stepped off again towards the airfield by very deliberately walking right between the two of them.

"You're taking the _Galactica_?" asked Jordan, a twinge of concern creeping into her tone for a moment.

"You know what they say, whenever you can, wherever you go, go heavy," replied Sean. "Besides, we have no idea what they've gone through since the Colonies fell; might be a nice boost for their morale if they see _Galactica_ instead of just a Raptor."

"Maybe, but if I know you, this is about more than a simple show of force for the benefit of their morale," countered Adrian as he fell into step beside his son.

"The fleet, if it _is_ out there, was positioned along the border of enemy controlled space," began Sean as he glanced over Adrian. "Most of the reports coming in from Runel's mission seem to indicate the enemy is cutting back on their activity, but I'd still like the deck stacked in our favor in case something does happen while we're out there."

"Makes sense considering," muttered Gaines.

"Considering what?" asked Adrian as he cast a sideways glance over at Gaines.

Looking over at Jordan as well, Sean gave her the slightest shake of the head, a subtle signal but he hoped still clear enough of an admonishment to keep her from revealing what he'd told her in confidence about the Cylons.

"I was just thinking of a very unpleasant possibility," began Gaines, her tone cautious, hesitantly gauged as she held Sean's gaze. "What if the Cylons are trailing this other fleet?"

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sean Kelso continued to hold her gaze, on the one hand silently fuming at her for voicing the statement so openly in public, but conversely struck by the fact that she may very well be right.

"I hadn't considered that," conceded Sean evenly.

And truthfully, he hadn't.

Phantom Cylons pulling strings behind the scenes with the Chigs and Silicates was frightening enough; the idea that a bonafide Cylon task force might in fact be just a jump's-distance away from Earth itself was downright bone-chilling.

Was this the reason the Cylons hadn't yet shown their hand? Had they simply been waiting for this second fleet to arrive, somehow calculating that their presence could fracture the alliance with Earth's forces? Earth and the Colonials were certainly stronger together than they were apart; driving a wedge between them would make fending off a Cylon assault near impossible.

Was this a gambit to wipe them all out in one stroke?

Second guessing; the potentially fatal scourge of a combat commander.

No, he couldn't allow fringe possibilities, no matter how terrifying, to influence or dissuade him from the more critical imperative; Sean Kelso was going to bring the Battlestar _Galactica_, _Pegasus_ and any civilian ships with them back to Earth.

"One step at a time," he finally muttered as he started off again towards the airfield.

As the three of them reached the edge of the tarmac, the engines of the Raptor that would be shuttling him into orbit whining at high-idle as the pilots prepared for departure, Sean Kelso paused and looked back over to his father and Jordan.

"Just be careful out there, Son," said Adrian, concern creeping into tone.

"You know me," replied Sean, a strained smirk creasing his lips as he held his father's gaze.

"Wouldn't feel the need to say it if I didn't," countered Adrian, his own grin every bit as anxious, awkward.

Beside him, Gaines was every bit as worried as Adrian, but not knowing how much the elder Kelso had discerned of the simmering attraction between her and Sean, all she could do was stand there in silence.

Letting out a long sigh, Sean looked over to Gaines, silent as she was but still clearly tense, apprehensive. In a deliberate bid to abate the moment's tension, however abrupt it was, Sean simply turned and stepped off again towards the Raptor.

"I'll see you both soon," called Sean over his shoulder, his voice barely audible over the Raptor.

As Adrian Kelso and Jordan Gaines stood there watching, Sean quickly stepped up into the Raptor, the side hatch closing behind him as he moved up and settled into the seat beside the pilot.

Within moments, a gust of wind washed out across the tarmac as the Raptor clawed its way into the air, rapidly climbing away with a roar as both Adrian and Jordan watched it disappear into the sea of powder blue sky overhead.

"So, are you going to tell me what that was _really_ about back there?" muttered Adrian simply, his eyes still lost in the skies overhead.

"Sir?" muttered Gaines, looking over at him in slight surprise.

"You know as well as I do that command is about people, Jordan," sighed Adrian as he slowly met her eyes. "Reading tones, voices, body language; they're skills that never really go away. You hesitated before mentioning the Cylons; tells me you know something more than what you actually said outright. And as much as Sean might think he's got me fooled, I can see there's more going on in his mind as well. Add those two things together, there's something the both of you don't want to talk about in front of me."

As she continued to hold Adrian's gaze, Gaines couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease.

"Not 'don't', 'can't_'_; we _can't_ talk about it," she finally replied. "Orders."

"Whose orders?"

"Your son's," answered Gaines, her tone almost apologetic. "What he told me, he did so in confidence, asked me not to tell anyone else, so I won't."

Letting out a long sigh, Adrian slowly looked back towards the sky overhead.

"Then at least tell me he's not in over his head," muttered Adrian, his voice heavy with worry.

"No, sir, I don't think he's in over his head," replied Gaines as she looked out towards the puffy clouds on the horizon. "But, if you're a praying man, then please, pray for him."

"Why?" asked Adrian as he glanced back over at her.

"Because if anything _does_ happen to him out there," began Gaines as her eyes once again met his. "I'm gonna kick his ass."

At that, Adrian broke out in a burst of genuine laughter.

"I bet you would, too," he chuckled.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector  
><strong>**Day 17**

"No matter how we look at it, this makes absolutely no sense," muttered Colonel Thadius Runel as he leaned in over the stack of reconnaissance reports lying on the Combat Operations Center table.

"It may not make sense, but the evidence is fairly conclusive," sighed Colonial Tyrus Cassius McQueen as he slowly thumbed through a stack of reconnaissance photos. "Near as we can tell, the Chigs have abandoned _all_ of their forward positions. Planets that used to garrison entire divisions are now little more than ghost towns, strategically critical airfields entirely devoid of activity, not so much as a paperclip left behind."

"Every convoy our birds have sighted was churning up space at flank speed for the nearest wormhole," sighed Runel. "They're acting like a force in full retreat."

"Maybe they're concentrating their forces as a measure against our FTL ability," offered Colonel Webber evenly. "Ever since we learned they'd acquired FTL's we've pretty much done the same thing around Earth, thrown up just about every bit of hardware we can to encircle it, maybe this is a similar strategy."

"Concentrating ships and planes is one thing," began Runel as he continued to peruse the reports from the recon Raptors. "But pulling out every last grunt, leaving behind not so much as a single listening post? If this is some sort of new strategy, it's a piss-poor one."

"Agreed," muttered McQueen as his attention settled in on an image of the abandoned enemy airstrip on Demios. "Time and again, the enemy exacted heavy tolls on our forces in exceptionally fierce fighting for just about every one of these rocks; abandoning them when we're nowhere near ready to resume the offensive is irrational."

"Well, the first recon sortie into the enemy's home system should be skids up by now," sighed Webber as she glanced over at the clock on the wall. "Hopefully they'll find something."

"If we can at least confirm that the Chigs have pulled back into the Helios system, it could go a long way towards shedding some light on the situation," muttered McQueen as he let the photos fall back down onto the tabletop. "We're certainly not getting much out of these at this point."

"Well, let's hope we do learn something useful," smirked Runel as he glanced over to Webber and McQueen. "Gods know, at this point even bad news would be better than no news at all."

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Zero-Three-Seven<br>****Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory – Helios System  
><strong>**Day 17**

Although she had been itching for an opportunity to fly one of the Colonial ships, this wasn't exactly what Captain Shane Vansen had had in mind.

"Oh, _frak_!" snapped Ensign Athari. "Rad-sensors say we've got four more coming in at one-four-five carom…"

"I need you to break it down a bit simpler," burst Vansen as her eyes snapped frantically back and forth.

"Low to our forward starboard," replied Athari frantically.

With her fingers clasped like steel clamps around the controls, Vansen very consciously allowed her mind to devolve a bit and reacted on instinct, absorbing as best she could the 'feel' of the craft as she threw it into a violent evasive turn.

Beside her, Ensign Munez's dead body flopped over against the retaining straps of his seat from the turn, the significant holes riddled across his body heavily encrusted with crystallized blood.

Up to a few moments ago, everything had seemed to portend another fairly routine mission; they'd jumped into Helios, home system of the Chigs, in order to confirm that the various enemy fleets and convoys picked up by recon flights over the last two weeks had in fact concentrated themselves within the system.

But a split second after they'd activated the Raptor's surveillance package in order to get photos of whatever they were about to see, the forward canopy had splintered apart from enemy fire, the blasts explosively venting the craft's atmosphere out into space while peppering Munez in his seat, momentarily leaving the Raptor pilotless.

For Shane Vansen, that was the moment when instinct had kicked in; without thinking, her hands had lashed out and seized hold of the throttle and control stick of the nimble craft.

In spite of her efforts to learn the Colonial language on a much more natural, fluent level, under the sudden flood of adrenaline, her conscious mind became utterly incapable of going through the mental motions of translating Colonial to English, thus most of the instruments, signals and alarms on the panel before her were still very much unreadable to her.

"Can we jump back out of here?" snapped Vansen as she threw the Raptor into another hard evasive turn.

"It'll take a few minutes to spool…"

"What about weapons?" burst Vansen as she caught sight of another pair of craft careening in from eleven o'clock high, guns blazing. "If we can't flee, we're gonna have to fight!"

"Large red icon, top center of the screen above DRADIS!" answered Athari, the strain Vansen's latest hard turn was putting on her body evident in her voice.

Glancing down, Vansen caught sight of the icon and lashed out with her throttle hand.

In response, the computer generated image of the Raptor on the screen highlighted several areas in red; quite absurdly, Vansen's mind flashed back to a simple ditty from Basic, 'red means dead'…

"Weapons are hot!" snapped Athari.

"How do I know when I have weapons lock?" burst Vansen as she brought the nose around towards a pair of attackers.

As if in response, Vansen heard what she hoped was a good missile tone echoing inside her helmet.

"We've got a lock!" called Athari. "Center panel, large button, between the status screen and DRADIS!"

Lashing out again with her hand, Vansen slapped the button she thought Athari was talking about. To her profound relief she felt the small ship rock slightly as a missile streaked out from underneath, slamming headlong a moment later into one of the assailing craft off their nose, the other craft accompanying it turning away as the breathless void swallowed the fireball that had been its companion.

But even before Vansen had a chance to savor even so momentary a victory, a stream of weapons fire erupted across the Raptor's nose from the right prompting her to again yank the vessel into a violent turn.

Truth be told, the whole experience was a bit more disorienting for Vansen than she might have guessed. Beyond the daunting prospect of learning the ship's flight and combat systems in the midst of a hairy dogfight, there was an added surreal quality to the situation. With the Raptor cabin's atmosphere gone, so too were the sounds of the craft's engines and equipment, the ambient noise she'd become accustomed to without realizing it until it was absent.

With her visceral reality robbed of everything but the sounds of her own panicked breathing, Athari's frantic voice, the feel of the controls in her hands and the rapid shifts of inertia that accompanied their manipulation, Vansen found it difficult to retain full situational awareness.

But in spite of the perceptional distraction she was enduring, Vansen knew she had to focus in on one essential truth; unless she kept pushing, pulling, twisting and pressing every control and button she could while traversing along this truncated real-world learning curve, she and Athari were going to die.

Testing the fuller effects of the pedals underneath her feet on the attitude of the craft, Vansen began to get a better sense of how to coax a little more nuance out of her rough maneuvers; sliding the tail a bit during one turn, banking just a bit tighter in the next. The pilot in her couldn't help but be impressed, even fully laden with ordnance the Raptor wasn't appreciably less maneuverable than a Hammerhead, a bit slower perhaps, but still quite agile.

Any doubts as to how much she cherished those attributes were easily dispelled as she banked to avoid the dozen or so lines of enemy fire crisscrossing her field of view.

Another thing that quickly found its way into her field of view was the sight of the Chig homeworld itself, the somewhat ashen appearance of its methane-dominated atmosphere making it seem almost sickly by comparison to the stark blue and green hues of Earth.

Still, one thing this grayish backdrop did do was clearly highlight what Vansen's widening eyes quickly discerned as being a decidedly ominous collection of enemy military might. All around were ships of every shape and size; confirmation that the entire Chig fleet had indeed come home. But as much as she might have wanted to, with at least a dozen particularly vicious enemy fighters all vying at that moment to gun her ass into the next life, Vansen didn't have the luxury of leisurely taking in the sights.

"Please tell me that jump drive is just about ready," groaned Vansen through clenched teeth as she manipulated the control stick, throttle and foot pedals into a particularly punishing high-G turn.

As if to emphasize her already keen sense of peril, Vansen felt the ship shake violently; although she couldn't hear anything, she'd had her own plane shot up enough times to recognize weapon impacts. Reflexively looking down at the panel, Shane didn't note anything new flashing and tried to take that as a good sign.

What she couldn't take as a good sign, however, was the abrupt absence of one of the few sounds she had been able to hear in the hard vacuum environment; Athari's voice.

"Athari, sound off!" snapped Vansen, unable to spare even a momentary glance aft. "Athari!"

Nothing.

"God _dammit_, now what am I supposed to do?" sputtered Vansen as she continued to jink, bank, spin and turn.

Glancing over at the screen at the center of the panel, Vansen was shocked to see that it had been shattered, apparently by weapons fire; now she couldn't even tell if she still had the ability to fire back.

"Oh, fuck me!" she burst angrily.

Try as she might not to, Vansen's mind nevertheless took stock of the situation as she continued to maneuver the Raptor like a drunken banshee, and understandably, she was not heartened; one confirmed dead pilot, one probable dead co-pilot, no way to tell whether or not she could still shoot back, or even the knowledge of how to do so even if it were possible, and about zero chance under the circumstances that she'd be able to take a moment to saunter aft and puzzle through how to operate the ship's jump system.

No doubt about it, her day had turned to complete shit.

So it was that with all possible options beyond simply being shot to pieces or maneuvering wildly until her fuel ran out and then being shot to pieces seemingly cut off to her, Vansen was startled to her absolute core as Athari's body burst into her field of view, slamming down hard onto the center panel.

No, not Athari's _body_, just Athari.

In vacuum silence, the most-decidedly alive woman flailed one hand widely to find purchase against the maneuvering of the Raptor as her other hand slammed down on a control button on the console.

Nothing happened.

Again, Athari slammed her hand down.

Again, nothing.

Reaching out with her free hand, Athari braced herself between the seats, then landed a hard, swift heel-kick against the panel.

Outside, everything disappeared in a blinding flash of silent light.

Reflexively, Vansen's eyes peered out into the depthless sea of black beyond the shattered canopy, hunting for some sign, any sign of their attackers. To her profound relief, she found none; near as she could tell surrounding space was now blessedly empty.

As she listened to the rapid, ragged sound of her own breathing, Vansen slowly looked back over at Athari as the woman lifted herself more fully onto her own feet.

After a few moments, Athari looked directly at Vansen, her mouth clearly moving, but no sound coming in over the speakers in Vansen's helmet.

"I can't hear you," muttered Vansen, shaking her head as she pointed up at the helmet.

Her expression clearly exasperated, Athari began motioning with her hands, apparently bidding Vansen to relinquish the co-pilot seat. Not particularly keen on the idea of trying to navigate the wounded Raptor herself while there was someone with more experience available, Vansen did so.

As she and Athari switched places, the woman very quickly took control of the Raptor and slowly brought the nose of the wounded bird around. Looking out past the jagged remains of the canopy, Vansen was more than a touch relieved when the _Enceladus_ and _Savitri_ swung into view.

"Thank god," muttered Vansen, as she absently glanced down at the unmoving body of Munez still strapped into the pilot seat. "Take us the hell home."

* * *

><p>Sound.<p>

Loud and chaotic.

With their damaged Raptor having limped its way back to the relative safety of the _Savitri_'s hangar deck, a small army of personnel in protective gear had descended upon the ship, making near-frantic circles around it as they checked for fires or sparks while others hurriedly unloaded the remaining ordnance.

Nevertheless, as she sat with her feet dangling over the winglet edge another nearby Raptor, Vansen was simply grateful to hear sound again, the cacophony as beautiful to her as a world-renowned orchestra for it meant they'd made it back alive.

Well, she and Athari had at least.

Glancing up, Vansen took in a deep breath as she watched a medical team wheel away Munez's shrouded body.

"There but for the grace of God," she muttered somberly.

"Vansen!"

Bid by the curt edge in the voice, Shane looked over and saw Colonel McQueen, accompanied by Colonel Webber, cutting a path through the chaos of the _Savitri_'s hangar deck.

With a slight hop, Vansen dropped off the Raptor winglet and came to a tired approximation of attention as McQueen stepped up to her.

"What happened out there, Captain?" asked McQueen flatly as his eyes panned over to the visibly shredded Raptor.

"Ambush, sir," replied Vansen simply as she watched Colonel Webber step over to the visibly shaken Athari slumped down against a nearby bulkhead. "They hit us right after we jumped in."

"Are you all right?" asked McQueen, his tone softening somewhat as he looked back over to Vansen.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen could see in them that he was asking about more than just her current physical well-being.

Objectively speaking, McQueen had every reason to be concerned; with everything else she'd been through, most especially the months-long horror of being a POW in Silicate captivity, Vansen was already considered borderline by some when it came to her psychological fitness. Tiptoeing as close as she apparently just had to the proverbial abyss could easily be the event which nudged her beyond that border.

"I'm fine, sir," she answered, her tone somewhat detached.

Watching her silently for a moment, McQueen was clearly trying to gauge her response.

"Seriously, sir," reiterated Vansen, the barest hint of a smirk creeping onto her lips. "I'm fine."

"Very well, Captain," sighed McQueen, his tone nevertheless still somewhat dubious. "You say you were ambushed; how many ships?"

"At least a dozen, sir," replied Vansen as she looked back over at the riddled Raptor.

"I guess the Chigs aren't quite out for the count after all," muttered McQueen as he too eyed the damage once more, silently impressed that it had absorbed so much punishment and still returned.

"Sir, I'm not entirely sure the ships that attacked us _were_ Chigs," countered Vansen, her statement immediately drawing McQueen's attention back to her.

"What makes you say that, Captain?"

"Two years fighting of them, sir," replied Vansen, groping a bit to coherently express the jumble of observations in her mind. "It's like…dancing; when you're with the same partner for a while, you learn which moves they prefer, where they're weak…"

"I'm listening."

"Their behavior," began Vansen, pausing as she collected her thoughts a bit more. "The ships that hit us weren't flying in Chig standard triple formation; they came at us in pairs."

"Pretty weak evidence, Vansen," replied McQueen evenly.

"Well, as you know, sir, Chigs prefer swarm tactics, large groups attacking from the same approach angle," continued Vansen. "The ships that hit us, there was a lot of them but they didn't all pounce at once from the same direction; each of the pairs hit us from completely different vectors, worked to envelope us, collectively cut us off or corral us. It was much more…methodical."

"Anything else?" prodded McQueen.

"The ships themselves, sir," replied Vansen evenly. "I didn't get a _good_ look, but the design was something completely different from the standard Chig fighter; no tri-wing, more like a flying wing configuration."

As McQueen took in a deep breath, digested what Vansen had just told him, Colonel Webber and Ensign Athari made their way towards them. Noting their approach, Vansen reached up and reinserted the earpiece for her translator.

"Are you alright, Captain Vansen?" asked Colonel Webber as she stepped up.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Vansen simply, fiddling a bit with her earpiece, but nevertheless still able to hear her.

"Ensign Athari says you took control of the Raptor after Munez was killed," began Webber evenly, her statement eliciting a somewhat surprised glance from McQueen.

"You forgot to mention that part, Captain," muttered McQueen, his tone taking on a token amount of indignance.

"It was going to be in my after-action, sir," replied Vansen weakly. "But yes, ma'am, I did; I know I was just supposed to observe but it was reflex, I didn't mean…"

"Oh, no, no apologies are necessary, Captain," countered Webber instantly. "Frankly, I'm rather impressed; takes some remarkable skill to fly an unfamiliar ship, especially when you can't even read the instruments."

"Captain Vansen has always been an exceptional pilot, Colonel Webber," interjected McQueen evenly.

"Of that I have little doubt," muttered Webber.

"Colonel Webber, Captain Vansen just told me they were ambushed by what she believes to be some new type of enemy fighter," began McQueen evenly. "Might be the same type of enemy bird the _Pacifica_ picked up near the moon; do we know if the ship's surveillance cameras were able to get any images of the craft?"

"Deck Chief says the ship took one hell-of-a pounding," sighed Webber as she glanced back over at the Raptor.

"Actually, Colonel, the FTL and surveillance systems were about the only things that _didn't_ get torn up in the fight," interjected Athari, a long sigh escaping her as she wiped the sweat on her forehead back through her hair. "As long as the hard drives weren't fouled by fire retardant, we should have some images of the ships that hit us."

"Chief!" barked Webber instantly as she looked over to the myriad of crewmembers gathered around the Raptor.

"Sir?"

"Pull and download the surveillance package ASAP."

"Understood, Colonel."

Letting out a clipped breath as she turned back towards them, Colonel Webber casually glanced over at Vansen's helmet sitting on the Raptor winglet, then back over at Vansen.

"Why don't you go down to medical and get checked out by the doc, Captain," said Webber as she glanced once more over at the helmet.

"I'm fine, Colonel," replied Vansen evenly.

Pausing, Webber held her gaze, then, very deliberately, reached over and picked up the helmet. Holding it appraisingly for a moment, she then rotated it slightly, just enough for the not-so-insignificant damage on its side to be easily seen by both Vansen and McQueen.

"A few millimeters the wrong way, this could have violated the integrity of the helmet," began Webber as she absently fingered the damage, from the looks of it, a grazing shot from enemy weapons fire. "Not to put too fine a point on it, Captain, but it would seem the gods were certainly watching over you today."

Slowly reaching over, Vansen took hold of the helmet, her eyes transfixed by the damage she hadn't even realized was there when she removed it.

"Guess that explains why I couldn't hear Athari," she muttered absently. "The impact must have knocked out the speakers inside."

For a moment, Vansen simply stood there, detached uncertainty creasing her features as she regarded the damage to the helmet, a peculiar sense of belated panic sending a cold chill along her spine.

For his part, McQueen could hardly miss the sobering change in Vansen's demeanor.

"Colonel Webber's right," interjected McQueen flatly as he reached over and took the helmet out of Vansen's hand. "You're going to see the doctor."

* * *

><p><strong>Warstar <strong>_**Galactica  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center  
><strong>**Earth Orbit**

"Commander on deck," called Lieutenant Cortez evenly as Commander Sean Kelso stepped in through the entryway and began making his way towards the center table.

"Are we ready to get underway, Major?" asked Kelso as he looked across the table to his XO.

"Affirmative, Commander," replied Burke as she casually handed the watch logbook over to him. "IFOR Orbital Control has acknowledged our departure notification; _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ have formed up and are ready to jump with us on your order."

"And _Proteus_?"

"As ordered, they've deployed additional Vipers to augment the CAP while we're gone," replied Burke as she reached up and gently brushed aside a lock of hair. "Major Tyle finally seems to be pulling it back together over there."

"Let's hope so," muttered Kelso as he casually began a new entry in the logbook. "Until we get back, she's the senior officer."

Letting out a long sigh, Commander Kelso finished making his entry, then slipped the pen back into his pocket as he closed the logbook.

Glancing across the table to Major Burke, he couldn't help but notice a hint of anxiousness in her normally serious eyes as she watched him finish.

"Something on your mind, Major?" asked Kelso casually. "You seem a bit more restless than normal."

"Just hoping we find them out there, sir," replied Burke as she held his gaze. "I…have a cousin…she was supposed to report aboard _Pegasus_ the day of the attack; I guess I'm just a bit eager to know if she made it."

"Were the two of you close?" asked Kelso as he leaned in a bit over the table.

"Her mother spent a lot of time away on government business of one sort or another so she spent a lot of time with us," replied Burke, a hint of a grin creeping across her lips at whatever memories were flooding through her mind. "Growing up in a house with three brothers, Kendra was the closest thing I ever had to a sister."

As he continued to look into her eyes, Kelso couldn't help but grin a bit at the decidedly uncharacteristic vulnerability in Burke's demeanor. In some very concrete ways, it was heartening to be reminded that his tough-as-nails Exec had a decidedly human side as well, no matter how well she normally hid it.

"Then let's go find them," muttered Kelso evenly as he reached down, toggled the switch for the One-MC, then lifted the handset on his side of the table to his ear. "Crew of _Galactica_, this is the Commander. As many of you already know, information has come our way regarding the possible location of a second fleet of Colonial survivors."

Pausing, Kelso looked once more across to his XO.

"I know many of you will be tempted by the hope that there may be family, friends amongst this fleet," continued Kelso, his eyes wandering away towards the rest of the crew around CIC. "Frankly, I share that hope. Nevertheless, we will be jumping into an area of space at the razor's edge of enemy territory; it is critical that each of you keep focus and tend to your duties."

Pausing once more, Kelso let out a long, steadying breath.

"Gods willing, we will find our brothers and sisters, and bring them safely to their new home," said Kelso as he once again met Burke's gaze. "For now; all hands, Action Stations."

All around CIC, the atmosphere was instantly charged as the crew, bid by his call and imbued with purpose, mentally shifted gears. Placing his handset back in its place on the side of the plot table, Kelso listened as Major Burke dutifully repeated his call to Action Stations over the One-MC. Waiting patiently, he took mental note as one-by-one the various department heads reported in from around the ship.

"All decks, all departments report Action Stations manned and ready, Commander," said Burke evenly a few moments later as she set her handset down onto the plot table.

"Jump coordinates set, sir," stated Lieutenant Cortez. "Drives have been spooled and synched; our board is green."

"_Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ report ready as well, Commander," called Petty Officer Rocca.

"Very well," replied Kelso as he slowly lifted his eyes to the DRADIS displays overhead. "Start the clock, Lieutenant Cortez; let's go get our people."

Cast against the infinite enormity of the universe, the departure of the three Colonial warships, finite and ephemeral as they were by contrast, went largely unnoticed by the greater portion of creation.

But not unnoticed by all.

Resting undetected amid the endless seas of grey regolith which dominated Earth's only natural satellite, two ships observed the departure with purposeful interest.

Moments after the departure of the Colonial vessels, the two ships, their clandestine mission now complete, slowly came back to life in a manner akin to predatory beasts awakening from a long winter's slumber, the thin particulate layer that had settled upon their exteriors following their initial arrival now falling away as they slowly lifted themselves up from the surface.

With none of the remaining human ships hovering protectively around the beautiful blue and green world in any way aware of their presence, the two ships then jumped away.

* * *

><p><strong>Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System<br>****Orbit**

"Our scout ships have returned, your Excellency," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly as it and the other Silicate leaders knelt before the aged figure seated before them. "Our operative reports that Michael Lane turned over the data we provided to the Colonials; three of their vessels have departed Earth."

"Which Colonial vessels?" muttered Cavil, his voice heavy, infinitely tired.

"_Galactica_, _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_," replied Elroy El Three-Eight-Seven. "Only one Combatstar, _Proteus_, remains as an effective combatant."

"_Galactica_," seethed Cavil, his tone taking on an edge of visceral malice that belied his advanced age as he leaned forward a bit in his seat. "I _really_ hate that _fraking_ name. Are your forces in position?"

"Yes, your Excellency," answered Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"And what about the operative; are his compatriots ready to carry out their assignments?"

"They are, your Excellency."

Taking in a deep, ragged breath, Cavil grinned slightly in spite of the coughing fit that momentarily seized him.

"I have waited a hundred and fifty millennia for this moment," wheezed Cavil as he looked over at each of the kneeling Silicates before him. "You may proceed."

"By your command," the Silicates replied in unisons.

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Infirmary**

"Well, I could run a CT scan, but frankly I don't think it will turn up anything," began Doctor Digaetano evenly as he casually slipped his penlight back into his smock pocket. "Her pupil response is good, no slurred speech, no altered mental state or any others signs of concussion or head trauma."

Watching Vansen intently as she sat on the edge of the gurney, McQueen continued to gauge her, uncertain.

"Thank you, Doctor," he finally sighed.

With the barest hint of a nod, Digaetano turned and stepped away.

Taking in a deep breath, arms folded, McQueen simply stood there as Vansen looked up, her eyes meeting his.

"I told you I was okay, sir," muttered Vansen, a hint of a smirk on her lips.

"Don't butter me, Captain," countered McQueen. "This is about more than a simple bump on the head, and you know it."

Letting out a long sigh, Vansen's eyes dropped away from McQueen's steely gaze, settling at last on her own dangling feet, her bare toes looking oddly small to her for some reason at that moment.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" asked Vansen as she continued to stare at her own toes.

"Granted."

"Are you afraid I'm losing it, sir?" she asked flatly, her eyes snapping back to him as she spoke.

"Thought crossed my mind," conceded McQueen.

"May I ask why, sir?"

Pausing, McQueen held her gaze.

"The look in your eyes, the way you sat on the wing of that plane like a sullen child while they were removing that pilot's body on the hangar deck."

For a moment, Vansen's blank expression wavered; she hadn't realized he'd been watching her.

"Your psyche evals following your rescue from Kazbek were marginal at best, Vansen," began McQueen, his tone softening a bit even if his overall demeanor didn't. "Truth is you were a hairs-breadth from being sidelined right along with Damphousse."

"Are you saying you pulled some strings to keep me, sir?"

"I'm saying you've always walked a fine line in life, Vansen," replied McQueen evenly. "Ever since you were a child, when you watched the Silicates murder your parents, you've struggled to answer the question, 'who am I'; the Corps was the first place that helped you to definitively answer that question."

Pausing once more, McQueen slowly stepped over and leaned back against the gurney beside Vansen as her eyes once again fell upon her dangling bare feet.

"But ever since you came back from Kazbek, you've resisted fully taking back that identity," continued McQueen. "You may have climbed back into the cockpit, but you still haven't really climbed back into being who you really are."

"You mean command," muttered Vansen, her voice barely a whisper. "Sir, respectfully, the last time I was in command, I got myself and two of my team captured, almost killed and that was a _good_ day; Winslow, Lindon, Gordon, Nelson, Sterling, Woodyatt, Pagodin…all of them died while I was honcho."

"I lost the entire Angry Angels squadron, men and women I'd served with for years," countered McQueen flatly. "This is war, Vansen. Sometimes you can do everything right and people, _good_ people, still don't come back."

Taking a deep breath, Vansen slowly looked back over to McQueen.

"You have a choice to make, Captain," prodded McQueen as he noted the lingering vacillation in her eyes. "And frankly, I need to know what your choice is, right here, right now."

"Do I take command again or not," she muttered, nodding her head slightly.

"No, a much more fundamental question," countered McQueen curtly. "Will you be true to who you really are, who I've always known you to be, or will you continue to hide from it like the scared child you were the night your parents were killed."

As she stood looking at the hatch leading into their assigned berthing space, Vansen took in a deep, steadying breath, hesitant, still a bit uncertain, but bid by McQueen's characteristic brand of brutally tough love into making a choice.

"Here we go," she muttered as she reached over and undogged the hatch.

With a loud thump followed by the high-pitched creak of the slightly rusty hinges, she pulled open the hatch and made her way inside.

"Shane!" burst Hawkes as he hopped down from his bunk and quickly made his way over to her.

"We heard you guys got ambushed out there," muttered West as he too sidled up to her.

"Bad guys have some particularly nasty new toys out there," replied Vansen evenly as her mind's eye conjured up the image of the damage to her helmet. "Got pretty hairy."

Pausing, Shane looked over into the expectant eyes of Hawkes and West, then over at the empty bunks around the berthing space.

"Where's the rest of the squadron?" asked Vansen evenly as she eyed the empty bunks.

"Where else; chow," replied Hawkes. "Not a whole lot to do other than sit on our hands right now."

"When word got out that your flight had been hit, higher-ups scrubbed the rest of the missions scheduled for today," said West as he continued to watch Shane. "Are _you_ alright?"

Caught by the sincere concern in her friend's voice, Shane slowly met West's gaze.

"I need to talk to you," she replied simply, motioning her head back over towards the hatch.

"Okay," said West, his tone somewhat quizzical.

"Hawkes, stay here for a second," muttered Vansen as she and West stepped out into the corridor.

Letting out a somewhat miffed snort, Hawkes watched as Vansen began closing the hatch.

"Oh, sure, leave me out of the loop," he sputtered somewhat indignantly as he ambled his way back over towards his bunk. "Not like anyone ever tells me nothing around here anyways."

Smirking slightly at Hawkes' all-too-Hawkes-like reaction, Vansen secured the hatch.

Then, taking in a deep breath, she turned towards a visibly expectant West.

"What's on your mind, Shane?" he asked, his expression clearly concerned.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen hesitated.

"There's something I need to tell you," she began tentatively. "I don't know how to put it…"

"Just spit it out," muttered West.

Meeting his eyes, Vansen let out a long sigh.

"I'm taking back command of the Fifty-Eighth, Nathan," she said simply.

As the words left her mouth, all Shane Vansen felt was an acutely pensive uncertainty over how Nathan West, her friend, would react. While there were a lot of things in her life she could compartmentalize away behind the façade of being a Marine, her friendship with Nathan West was dear enough to her that no veneer of professional detachment would ever be authentic. In very plain terms, his opinions and his camaraderie were things that truly mattered to her. The last thing she wanted was to betray that friendship in his eyes.

Unfortunately, from his expression, completely blank as it was, she couldn't help but feel that that was exactly what she had done. Indeed, he seemed utterly flabbergasted by her statement, so much so that an uncomfortable silence hung there between them for an excruciatingly interminable amount of time.

"_And_?" he finally prodded, his tone entirely nonchalant, much to Vansen's surprise.

"And what?" she countered, for a moment wondering if he had in fact heard her. "Nathan, I just told you I am taking command again…_from_ you."

"Well what were you expecting from me, a temper tantrum?" he chuckled.

Almost instantly, a wave of warm relief passed through Vansen.

Ever since the Colonel's terse pep-talk had nudged her into making the choice, Shane had been fretting about how much damage might be wrought upon her friendship with West by her taking back command. From the expression on his face, it was clear the answer was negligible if any at all.

"For a minute there, Shane, you had me scared," muttered West, another half chuckle escaping him as he reached over and nudged Vansen's shoulder. "From the look on your face, I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something."

"_What_?" sputtered Vansen, eyes wide with shock, her voice literally squeaking a bit. "What the _hell_ would make you even _think_ such a…_when_ would I have had _time_ to…_don't even kid_ about something like that, Nathan West."

In spite of, or perhaps more accurately because of her utterly flummoxed reaction to his outrageous statement, West broke out in complete laughter, Vansen herself following suit a moment later.

"So we're good?" she asked simply.

"Yeah, we're good," he replied.

"Good," she grinned. "Because you're not exactly off the hook, my friend."

Pausing, he glanced over into her eyes, a slight chuckle escaping him as he noted the mischief in them.

"Let me guess…" he muttered.

"Turnabout's not only fair play, it can also be a bitch," nodded Vansen, savoring the moment of good-natured payback. "You're going to be my XO."

"You sure you don't want Hawkes?" asked Nathan as he casually pointed over towards the hatchway. "He's right inside, we can let him know right now."

In response, Vansen began slowly but adamantly shaking her head.

"Nope; Hawkes is a good stick, but I'm not about to spend the rest of the war unfucking his paperwork."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Commanding Officer's Quarters**

"Well, you were the one who said that even bad news would be better than no news at all," sighed Colonel Webber as she continued to thumb through the reconnaissance photos in her hand.

"This isn't just bad news," groaned Runel as he massaged the bridge of his nose. "This has the makings of a fraking catastrophe."

"If you believe that, why haven't you sent a Raptor back yet to advise the Commander?" muttered Webber as she glanced across to him.

"Because bad news doesn't mean imminent danger," began Runel as he looked back down at the photos in his hands. "And resemblance doesn't mean definitive proof."

Trouble was, as much as Runel wanted to believe what he had just said, the cold tingle crawling along his spine as he looked at the images of the ships which had hit the Raptor seemed to leave little wriggle room for doubt.

Wide, flying wing design, generally ovoid in appearance from above; the photos could almost be any of a dozen gun-cam images taken during the First Cylon War. Almost, but not quite exact; there were some visible differences.

Curiously, that was almost part of the problem for him.

"Athari didn't seem to have any doubt," countered Webber. "When I spoke to her, she was pretty clear they'd been hit by Cylon Raiders."

"But they didn't show up on DRADIS," interjected Runel. "None of the Cylon ships we encountered during the attack had stealth characteristics."

"And that is enough for you to discount what's plainly before your eyes?" sputtered Webber, her tone utterly skeptical as she absently held up one of the images.

"Brie, I'm not saying these don't _look_ like Cylon Raiders," began Runel as he let out a long, frustrated breath. "What I'm saying is that these aren't the same type of Raiders that hit us during the destruction of the Colonies; hell, they're not even the same models they used during the First Cylon War."

"Maybe they're using multiple types," shrugged Webber as she looked over to him. "But let's say you're right, and by some miracle those _aren't_ Cylon Raiders, then how the hell do you explain _these_?"

With that, Webber tossed down a wide image captured of the fleet around the Chig homeworld. Most were readily identified by the IFOR Intel team aboard _Savitri_ as being standard Chig craft; bombers, transports, capital ships.

But set apart from the recognizable enemy ships were four other vessels; much larger, circular dual hulls connected at a central axis, long spire arms extending out from the disks; frighteningly evocative, but still not technically definitive.

"Again, these aren't the types of Baseships that we encountered during the destruction of the Colonies," replied Runel evenly, the cold tingle still working its way relentlessly along his spine.

"My _gods_, how much more _fraking_ definitive does the proof need to be?" sputtered Webber. "What do you want, a fraking _Centurion_ to walk up and shake your hand?"

"Fine, you think this is proof?" burst Runel as he met her angry glare. "Then explain this…"

With that, Runel tossed a report generated by the IFOR Intel team, a summary of their analysis of the surveillance images.

Snorting, Webber snatched up the report and began to read it.

"I'll save you the trouble, Brie," snapped Runel impatiently. "According to _them_, the actual materials used to build those 'Raiders' and 'Baseships' are of _Chig_ origin."

"What?" muttered Webber, scowling a bit as she came to the passages Runel had so brusquely summarized.

"That ELINT pod they asked us to tote along aboard the Raptor apparently did its job," continued Runel, the anger abating a bit from his tone. "LIDAR refraction patterns, Sewell fuel signature…a whole laundry list of tech-talk, but the conclusion they came to is that these ships were built using Chig materials and techniques."

"They look Cylon, but are locally made," muttered Webber as she continued to peruse the report. "Hybrids?"

"There's also the signals intelligence," sighed Runel. "Dual carrier wave wireless transmissions."

"Silicates," seethed Webber as she let the report fall back down onto the tabletop. "Son-of-a-bitch; _this_ is the fleet they've been building."

"Looks that way," muttered Runel as he leaned in over the tabletop, his eyes falling back down onto the copious images spread out before him. "The Silicates may have a powerful need to emulate the Cylons, but these are still 'locals'."

"It has to be the programming code Macedo found," began Webber as she looked across at his hunched shoulders. "However it was introduced into them, it's driving their actions now."

"Which means your theory about some lost Raider crashing here twenty years ago may be gaining credence," smirked Runel as his eyes continued to pour over the images. "But this also means we're in for one hell of a nasty fight."

"How's that?"

"Just think about it, Brie," began Runel, his tone heavy, wary as he met her eyes. "How hard is it going to be to tangle with a vessel that has the striking power of a Cylon Basestar mated with stealth characteristics of a Chig stealth ship; by the time our rad-sensors pick up the Sewell fuel signature, they'll already have us at point-blank range."

"My gods," muttered Webber as the horror of that plausible ramification sank in.

"Gets worse," continued Runel as he slid the image of the orbital fleet towards her. "Remember, there's already more than one out there."

As the two of them paused, their minds all but reeling from the frightful conclusions and copious contradictions offered up by the reports and images laid out before them, a firm knock came at the hatch.

"Who's at my hatch?" called Webber evenly.

"Corporal Donnovan, Colonel," came the somewhat muffled reply. "Colonel McQueen is here to see you, sir."

Again pausing, Runel and Webber locked eyes.

"Let him enter, Corporal," called Webber, a long sigh escaping her.

As the sound of the hatch opening echoed off the walls, Colonel McQueen made his way over towards the desk as both Runel and Webber reached up and inserted their translator earpieces.

With his eyes falling down towards the images spread out on the desktop, McQueen took in a long breath as Corporal Donnovan closed the hatch.

"How's your pilot, Colonel?" asked Webber evenly.

"Resting, but fine," replied McQueen as his eyes continued to scan across the images. "I take it these are the images from the Raptor mission?"

"That they are," sighed Runel as he glanced over at Webber. "According to your intel team, not only have we located the entire Chig fleet, we seem to have stumbled across some of the new ships the Silicates have been working on."

"That could be good news or bad depending on how this all works out," muttered McQueen as he slowly picked up one of the images showing the orbiting fleet. "Are these them?"

"Yes," replied Webber simply. "Image analysis suggests they are approximately fifteen hundred meters across, height of three-fifty, multiple offensive and defensive missile batteries, hangar spaces for several squadrons of Raid…of _fighters, _rather."

Noting the vocal hiccup, McQueen glanced over at Webber.

"Sorry, force of habit," she muttered.

"They certainly didn't take moderation into consideration while building them," began McQueen as he held her gaze.

Breaking eye contact with McQueen, Webber glanced over to Runel, the action deliberate enough, subtly evasive enough that McQueen couldn't help but notice it.

"Is there something else here I should know about?" asked McQueen evenly as he watched the two, noted the way they continued to hesitantly peruse the images.

"These new fighters are fast, and maneuverable," sighed Runel as he casually handed McQueen one of the gun-cam images of the ships. "The capital ships are heavily armed and likely pretty well armored based on their size. Worst of all, neither DRADIS nor LIDAR can pick them up, at least not at a distance that would make a difference."

"Stealth?" muttered McQueen, his brow scowling a bit as he took the image. "How the hell did they manage to build ships that large with stealth capabilities?"

"Don't know, but they did it," replied Webber, a long sigh escaping her as she leaned in over her desk. "There's a Sewell fuel signature, but by the time it registers on our radiation detectors the bastards are already on top of you."

As one of the few human beings alive who could say they'd tangled with a ship equipped with Chig stealth, and survived, McQueen was all too aware of just how formidable and dangerous it was; the idea that not just a fighter-sized craft but a full capital ship could be so equipped was terrifying beyond coherent words.

"We need to advise IFOR," stated McQueen evenly. "Unless a countermeasure can be found, we might as well drydock our ships and throw rocks at the bastards."

"I've been thinking about that, and there may be another possibility," muttered Runel as he looked over to McQueen. "Commander Kelso brought it up with the IFOR Combined Chiefs, but he was, shall we say, tersely rebuffed."

"And that is?" asked McQueen as he slowly met Runel's gaze.

"The Chigs," replied Runel. "If we could somehow bring them over to our side, they might be able to help us develop a countermeasure."

"It is their technology after all," interjected Webber.

"Are you _seriously_ suggesting we make contact with the Chigs?" scoffed McQueen.

"What I'm saying, Colonel, is that in the face of untenable options, we might just have to consider the unthinkable," countered Runel evenly. "The Silicates overthrew their government, ordered their military into suicidal assaults that have killed scores of their warriors; I sincerely doubt that's a yoke they wouldn't be willing throw off if given the chance."

"IFOR will _never_ go for that," replied McQueen flatly as he let the photos in his hand fall back down upon Webber's desk. "The Silicates may have hijacked the war, but prior to that the Chigs spent the better part of two years at the helm doing their damndest to wipe us out. Frankly, I doubt many tears would be shed on Earth if the Silicates did use their bioweapons to eradicate the Chigs; I certainly wouldn't shed any."

For a moment, an uncomfortable pause hung in the air.

"You obviously have very strong opinions in this matter, Colonel McQueen, I can sympathize with that," began Webber, an icy edge creeping into her tone. "However, aliens or not, you might have a different opinion on the merits of genocide if you'd already lived through one."

Meeting her eyes, McQueen found himself looking into cold fire.

To say he had strong opinions about the survival of an alien species that had brutally slaughtered more friends and comrades than he ever cared to count was an understatement.

Nevertheless, even his depthless enmity towards the enemy was bluntly tempered the moment Webber invoked the phrase 'genocide', a term that with all its visceral and historical connotations, never had any credible justification.

Simply put, even amongst the darkest of enemies there were still innocents.

"I suppose I would, Colonel Webber," muttered McQueen, his voice taking on an almost shamed tone. "Still, as you yourselves have noted, the Combined Chiefs have rejected the idea."

"New facts on the battlefield routinely shift the parameters of what is and is not reasonable, Colonel," replied Runel as he nudged the image of the ships back towards McQueen. "Now I've read some of the history of your world, and not unlike the Colonies, Earth has had moments where implacable enemies came together to oppose larger, graver threats; this is no different."

Taking in a long, deeply contemplative breath, McQueen stared at the photo of the massive Silicate warships, the threat they represented to the very survival of the human race all too clear in his mind.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" asked McQueen evenly.

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Orbit of the Blessed Homeworld  
><strong>**Fifth Planet of the Helios System**

"Are we certain the information is accurate?" asked the Supreme Military Leader evenly as he made his way along the corridor.

"The information is from a Silicate reconnaissance craft," replied his Subordinate as he kept pace. "Our own ships have not been able to confirm it."

"Our own ships _cannot_ confirm it," hissed the Supreme Military Leader indignantly. "The Silicates have decreed that none of our forces are allowed to leave the home system now that they are here."

"Then with respect, I do not understand how you expect to be able to accomplish this," began the Subordinate. "Certainly, they will be able to observe the departure of your shuttle."

"Perhaps, but there will never be a better opportunity," countered the Supreme Military Leader, his respiratory membranes shuddering with repressed agitation. "The Silicates are positioning more of their new warships in our system with each passing day; they already have the bulk of our forces blockaded in low orbit. If we wait too much longer, it may be too late; I am convinced the Silicates will launch an assault against us soon."

"And what if your departure prompts them to release the toxins on the crèche moon?" asked the Subordinate flatly. "Even if they don't attack outright, our race might still perish for your treason against them."

Pausing, the Supreme Military Commander looked over at the Subordinate.

"And if I do nothing, we are likely to perish anyway," stated the Supreme Military Commander dejectedly. "We must take the risk."

* * *

><p><strong>58<strong>**th**** Squadron  
><strong>**Helios System  
><strong>**Celestial Body 2064-K  
><strong>**IFOR Codename 'Anvil'**

"Any chance we can go look for that copy of G.I. Geequed I lost last time we were here?" asked Hawkes lightly as his eyes scanned back and forth over the terrain.

"Is he kidding?" muttered Low as she too scanned across the terrain. "We're humping fifty pound rebreather packs through the dark in the middle of triple canopy jungle on a chunk of rock just a stone's throw from the Chig homeworld and he's worried about a stupid comic book?"

"It was a special edition," replied Hawkes defensively.

"Sorry, Hawkes, no time on this trip," answered Vansen. "We're here on a different scavenger hunt."

"I'm just glad we managed to land in one piece," muttered Wang as he scanned high in the trees overhead. "Pretty nifty trick the Colonials have, being able to jump down inside the atmosphere like that."

"Unfortunately we still had to set down a good distance from our target to avoid detection," countered West as he pulled out the radio locator and activated it. "Humping it through this crap jungle is gonna take a while."

"How far?" asked Vansen simply as she watched West manipulate the locator.

"About twelve clicks," sighed West. "Seven hours easy in this terrain, maybe eight."

"Let's just hope we don't run into any enemy patrols," replied Vansen as she looked over at the two Explosive Ordnance Disposal techs assigned to accompany them. "You two ready to move?"

"Affirmative, Captain," replied Chief Warrant Officer Harriet Gerrity evenly.

"Ready as I'll ever be," grunted Gunnery Sergeant Adam Rakunas as he hefted up his gear.

"Okay, we'll keep this simple," began Vansen as she performed a quick brass check on her rifle. "Column formation, ten meter spread; terrain's gonna be a bitch so watch your intervals; Hawkes, you're on point, Wang second, West, you're navigating, then me, EOD, you two stay at our center, Laturner, Low, Stone, you three are my maneuver element if we walk into an ambush, and Keegan, you're tail end Charlie."

"Gee, thanks, appreciate it, Captain," muttered Keegan sarcastically.

"Just be sure to watch our six," smirked Vansen as she glanced over at Keegan. "Shouldn't be too bad; first sign of trouble you can just light'em up with that fancy new grenade launcher there."

"As if you really needed to tell me," grinned Keegan as he opened the breech and slipped a HEAP round into place. "Ever since we passed quals, I've been itching a bit to try this out in the field."

At that, several of the Five-Eights let out a chuckle, Vansen included.

Truth be told, Vansen was more than a bit curious herself to see how the new weapons they'd been issued would stand up under the test of combat.

While the Five-Ninety had overall proved itself durable and reliable since the beginning of the war, at just under thirteen pounds it was a bit of burden in relation to the firepower it brought to the battlefield. Moreover, except for the rare few which had undergone an unauthorized 'field modification' by some grunt, they were locked into semi-automatic fire, a feature which proved problematic during sustained actions where a high volume of suppressive fire was needed.

These new Five-Ninety-Five's, however, promised to bring a new level of pain to the enemy. Not only was the new bullpup configuration lighter, but the reintroduction of the three-round burst and the integration of a forty-mike-mike grenade launcher into the system more than doubled the effective firepower the team would be able to lay down in a pinch.

And here on the enemy's home turf, it was heartening to know that they'd be able unleash a little squad-level 'rapid-dominance' if they came under fire.

"Okay, people, final gear check, no dangles or jangles, we move in five mikes."

With that, everyone set about making final adjustments to straps and equipment, more than a few rolls of electrical tape and some zipties quickly passing hands as the process was completed.

Within minutes, the line of Marines set off through the jungle, climbing and snaking their way through undergrowth that appeared to have been thriving since time immemorial. All around were thick exposed roots and branches, vines running across the ground, dangling from overhead; it would have been formidable terrain to cross unladen, but with the added complication of being a poisonous methane environment, each of the Marines was forced to contend with carrying not only the accoutrements of combat, but the vital equipment of respiratory survival as well.

The one thing that seemed to work in their favor is that having spent the better part of the last three weeks in the relatively low-oxygen environment of the _Savitri_ the full oh-two support of the rebreather pack was a bit invigorating.

In spite of the fact that they were so deep within enemy territory that with but a glance overhead one could actually see the pin-points of moving lights that were the enemy's ships overhead, the movement through the triple canopy nightmare went largely without incident, save one particularly embarrassing moment when West, his attention of the radio locator, snagged a foot on an exposed root and took a tumble down the anterior side of the slope.

Fortunately, neither he nor the locator suffered for the experience and the patrol was able to continue.

As West had predicted, it took just under eight hours to reach their objective rally point.

"Okay, circle up, take a knee," huffed Vansen as she waved her hand in a circular motion overhead.

Tired as they all were, the members of the Five-Eight nevertheless complied, pulling into a tight defensive circle, eyes and muzzles outboard, around Vansen, West and the two EOD techs.

"How much farther?" asked Chief Warrant Officer Gerrity through heavy breaths.

"One hundred meters," replied West as he pointed off towards a thick growth of underbrush. "Thataway."

"How long do you think it will take?" asked Vansen, her own breathing a bit more labored that she would have liked as she looked over at Gerrity.

"Honestly, your guess is as good as mine, Captain," replied Gerrity as she wrestled more control over her breathing. "Have to see what I'm working with first."

"Right," nodded Vansen as she glanced out around the area. "Okay, take a good look around, if we get hit, this is our rally point."

"With all due respect, this crap all pretty much looks the same, Captain," muttered Low. "We get hit, disoriented, how are we going to find it?"

"We're too close to risk cracking any IR beacons," replied Vansen evenly as he eyes continued to scan the area, her eyes finally settling on two particularly large trees poking through the upper canopy. "Okay, go ahead and shoot a resection off those two trees over there, you get cut off, just follow them back to this spot."

Accordingly, each of the Marines did exactly that, taking a compass bearing off of the only potential terrain features that stood out amid this homogenous environment of insanely overgrown vegetation.

"Okay, everyone got their bearings?" asked Vansen as she glanced around to each of the Marines, a quick of thumbs-up from each signaling they had. "Okay, Hawkes, Wang, you two give me a box recon out to the objective; we'll move up the center."

With crisp nod, both Hawks and Wang hopped up and moved off in divergent directions, one to the left, the other to the right.

"Laturner, Low, move up front," continued Vansen as Hawkes and Wang disappeared into the surrounding jungle.

As Laturner and Low set off at the head of their column, the Marines very cautiously covered the last hundred meters, very much cognizant that while contact during the movement in had been possible, as they neared the source of the radio beacon they were tracking it became damned near likely.

So it was that with an uneasy sense of surprise, Hawkes, Wang and the remainder of the patrol all converged on the objective with not a single shot fired, not a single sighting of the enemy.

"Okay, is it me, or does it seem strange that no one is around?" muttered Wang as his eyes and muzzle scanned out across the surrounding jungle.

"They may not be here now, but that doesn't mean they can't show up at any moment," countered Vansen. "Spread out and keep your eyes and ears open."

As the members of the Five-Eight fanned out into a tight perimeter, Vansen glanced back over to Warrant Officer Gerrity and Gunny Rakunas as the duo slowly dropped their gear packs onto the ground and began cautiously making their way towards the objective, in this case, the long metallic cylinder lying on its side in the middle of the underbrush.

"Please tell me it looks familiar," muttered Vansen as she eyed the cylinder warily.

"Well, at first glance it kinda looks like my water heater," quipped Rakunas as he knelt down beside the object.

"As much as I appreciate a good joke, Gunny, that's a Silicate bomb which is supposed to contain enough bio-chemical agent to wipe out every living thing for hundreds, maybe thousands of kilometers," began Vansen evenly as she watched him begin passing a detection device along the exterior of the cylinder. "I'd _really_ kind of appreciate it if you focused in on not pissing it off."

"Relax, Captain," began Gerrity as she likewise passed another device over top of the cylinder. "Only one of two things are going to happen, either it will go off, or it won't; at least we know it doesn't have a proximity detonator."

"Swell," muttered Vansen as she very consciously turned away to look out into the jungle.

For the next several minutes, the two Explosive Ordnance techs continued to run an assortment of electronic devices across the exterior while the members of the Five-Eight tried to keep their focus on the surrounding jungle and not on the fact that they were sitting uncomfortably close to toxin-bearing high-explosive device.

"I still think it's strange the Silicates put a radio beacon on the thing," sighed Wang as he glanced back over his shoulder at the work taking place.

"Certainly made it easy enough to find," muttered Low.

"That's probably the point," interjected Keegan. "You don't have to bother showing the Chigs each and every device if you can just show them the transponder signals."

"Maybe they're a relay of some kind, some sort of dead-man's switch," offered Laturner. "If one shuts down, then the others go off; you might be able to deactivate one, maybe a dozen, but you'd never be able to get to all of them at the same time."

"Talk like that isn't making us feel the love over here," muttered Gerrity sardonically as she scowled slightly at the readings on the device in her hand. "Gunny, are you picking anything up?"

Pausing, Gunny Rakunas silently held the device in his hand up so Gerrity could see the display.

"That makes absolutely no god-damned sense," muttered Gerrity as she looked at the readings.

"I ran it twice," shrugged Rakunas.

"What's wrong, Gerrity?" asked Vansen, her brow furrowing a bit as she watched Gerrity and Rakunas simply stare blankly at the cylinder for a moment.

"Just give me a second, Captain," replied Gerrity as she motioned for Rakunas to stand back up.

"Well, what do you think, ma'am?" muttered Rakunas as he looked over at a somewhat ruminating Gerrity, then back down at the device.

"Only one way to know for sure," replied Gerrity simply.

Then, with the two of them leaning in over the cylinder, Gerrity reached a tentative hand out towards the Silicate bomb and unfastened the series of simple butterfly locks on the casing's exterior.

"Hey, whoa, aren't there a few steps you're skipping?" sputtered Wang as he heard the slight metal ring of the butterflies flopping down against the metal casing.

"No, need," replied Gerrity as she rather unceremoniously yanked a cover plate free. "Captain Vansen, you're gonna want to take a look at this."

Releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd sucked in while watching Gerrity and Rakunas, Vansen slowly made her way over towards the cylinder, still very much wary that her entire reality might still vanish in a blinding flash at any moment.

But as she stepped up, noted the utterly unconcerned, perhaps even a bit miffed look on Gerrity's face, Vansen looked over at the section of casing in the EOD tech's hands.

As Gerrity turned it over a bit, Vansen saw some rather unimpressive electronics attached to a flashing red light along the interior curve of the hatch, but nothing else.

"What is that?" she asked, her brow again furrowing a bit.

"In a nutshell; a cheap clock radio," replied Gerrity flatly.

"_What_?" sputtered Vansen.

It was then that Rakunas took out a flashlight and shined it down into the interior of the cylinder.

Leaning forward a bit, Vansen looked inside.

And saw nothing.

"It's empty," she muttered, looking back over at Gerrity and Rakunas in confusion.

"Looks like the Silicates bluffed, Captain," stated Gerrity as she tossed the piece of casing down onto the ground in slight disgust. "The bombs are bullshit."


	17. Not With A Bang

**Viper Two-One-One-Three  
><strong>**Combat Air Patrol  
><strong>**Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector  
><strong>**Day 20**

Despite all her attempts to avoid it, Lieutenant Marcia 'Fancy' Yansey let out a long, deep yawn as she brought the nose of her Viper around in a wide turn.

"_Hey, watch it with the yawning over there_," muttered her wingman, Lieutenant Ghadir 'Risky' Betts with mock frustration over the wireless as he too let out an audible yawn of his own. "_Damn things are contagious."_

"Sorry, didn't know you could hear it over the wireless," smirked Yansey as she completed the turn and straightened out along the next leg of their patrol pattern around _Savitri_ and _Enceladus_.

Taking a moment to glance down at her flight panel, a minor attempt to distract herself from the next yawn coalescing at the edge of her perceptions, Yansey noted with no small measure of bored dismay that she still had approximately two hours left out on CAP.

Although there was no one particular reason as to why, today was a day where she simply felt bone-deep tired and was looking forward to nothing more than getting back to her rack.

Before long, lulled by the gentle rumble of her Viper's engines to fatigued distraction, Yansey's concentration again began to wane, her eyes drooping slightly as a mental miasma closed in around her awareness. With an almost burning defiance, Yansey violently shook her head and did her best to wriggle her body around within the tight confines of the cockpit, a desperate bid to get her blood moving enough to ward off the creeping fog of fatigue.

"_You okay over there, Fancy_?" asked Betts as he tightened up a bit on her wing. "_You look like you just had a stroke or something_."

"Just trying to keep the blood pumping," replied Yansey as she looked out past her canopy into the trackless depths of space. "All this black is really wearing on me today; really wishing I had some coffee right about now."

"_Probably do more harm than good at this point_," countered Betts, a slight chuckle escaping him. "_All coffee's gonna do is make you need to take a leak; think about it, which is worse, a little fatigue or squirming in your seat for the next two hours because of a full bladder_?"

"Bit of a tossup at the moment," replied Yansey as another yawn escaped her.

For his part, Betts merely chuckled.

It was at that moment that a low alarm echoed out from her panel, instantly excising her fatigue with a fresh dump of adrenaline.

"_Savitri_, Viper Two-One-One-Three," she snapped as her focus sharpened a bit. "Be advised, I have a bogey inbound at zero-eight-seven carom zero-two-five, negative squawk, no transponder."

"_Viper Two-One-One-Three, _Savitri_, we copy your bogey, no known friendlies in the area, designate probable hostile; we're scrambling Alert Five, they'll take position at your six; close with contact for visual confirmation, you are cleared hot if engaged; good hunting_."

"Copy that, _Savitri_," replied Yansey as she glanced over to Betts' Viper. "You ready to earn your pay, Risky?"

"_What, fifty extra cubits_?" snorted Betts. "_Sure, why not? At least you've caught a second wind."_

"Let's just get this guy before the adrenaline wears off," smirked Yansey as she glanced back down at DRADIS while pulling her Viper into a wide turn that would put her and Betts in a perfect position for intercept, and if necessary, a quick and lethal head-on deflection shot on the target.

Throttling up, Yansey flexed her fingers around the control stick as she returned her eyes to the bleak darkness beyond her canopy, watchful for some visible sign of the closing contact.

Although acutely aware that she and Betts were likely moments out from a full-on fight, Yansey at least tried to take heart from the fact that since the contact was showing up on DRADIS it likely wasn't one of the enemy stealth ships they'd been briefed about that morning.

As long as they could see it, they could shoot it.

But as she continued to visually hunt for the contact against the infinite backdrop of stars, Yansey unexpectedly caught sight of something that made her heart skip a few beats; thin intermittent trails of racing lights.

Weapons fire.

"_Oh, frak_!" burst Betts over the wireless. "_Fancy, you seeing what I'm seeing_?"

"Wish I could say I wasn't," muttered Yansey as she thumbed her wireless transmit button. "_Savitri_, Viper Two-One-One-Three, we're gonna need the cavalry to step it up; we have more than one contact out here."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector**

"What have we got?" snapped Webber as she stepped into CIC and began quickly cutting a path to the main plot table.

Following close on her heels through the entryway, Colonel McQueen, his eyes taking in the clearly charged scene around him, made his way over to Major Giles Danton, the officer from his detail assigned as direct liaison in _Savitri_'s CIC.

"CAP is en route to intercept an unknown bogey, Colonel," began Captain Golan as he quickly made his way back over to the Tactical Operations console. "Alert Five is in the air, but we have another problem."

"What problem?" asked Webber curtly as she glanced over at Golan.

"According to Risky and Fancy our bogey is not alone, sir," replied Golan as he met her gaze. "From the looks of things, we have at least two enemy stealth ships out there as well."

"Have the rad-detection systems picked up the stealths yet?" snapped Webber as her eyes focused back in on DRADIS, her mind immediately flashing back to the photos of the Silicates' new and hauntingly Raideresque stealth fighters.

"Must still be too far out, Colonel," replied Golan as he returned his attention to his console. "We're only picking up the one bogey on DRADIS, rad systems are clear."

"Then how do they know?"

"They're reporting weapons fire, Colonel," replied Golan evenly. "From the looks of things, the two stealth ships are firing on our bogey."

"Could the bogey be one of the Raptors that inserted our team onto Anvil?" asked McQueen as he too looked over at the DRADIS displays.

"Negative, Colonel," interjected Major Danton evenly. "I ran a check, the signature on the bogey matches a standard Chig scout ship."

"Are you saying we have two enemy birds firing on one of their own?" muttered Webber, her tone clearly perplexed.

"That's what it looks like, Colonel," replied Golan evenly.

"Well that's certainly different," muttered McQueen sardonically as he took a couple tentative steps closer to the center plot table.

"Petty Officer Deyja; get on the wireless to _Enceladus_," began Webber, her hawkish eyes alert for some sign of the approaching threat on DRADIS. "Confirm that Colonel Runel has been advised of the situation."

"Aye, sir," replied Deyja simply.

But even before Deyja had a chance to send the message, Webber seemed to get her answer as she watched the imposing bulk of _Enceladus_ shift position on DRADIS, the stout battlecruiser deftly dropping in below the _Savitri_, a position that brought her imposing AA batteries to bear on the closing enemy ships while moving Webber's ship out of the line of fire.

"You always did know how to dance, Thadius," muttered Webber, the barest hint of a smirk on her lips, _Enceladus_ completing her maneuver as Webber reached down and snatched up the handset from the side of the plot table. "How long before Risky and Fancy are in position to intercept?"

"Two minutes," replied Golan.

"Patch me through to our Vipers."

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Two-One-One-Three<strong>

Although she and Betts were still far outside of direct engagement range, Yansey felt the muscles in her body continue to tighten with anticipation as she watched the lethal dance taking place beyond her canopy.

"_Fancy, _Savitri_-Actual_."

"Send it, Actual."

"_Give me a sit-rep; straight and simple, what are you seeing out there_?"

"Firm DRADIS contact on one bogey, craft is maneuvering evasively and under fire from two other craft, negative contact on DRADIS, probable stealth, but well armed."

"_Any chance this is some kind of ruse_?"

"If it is, Actual, they're playing it to the hilt; have observed multiple glancing impacts on primary bogey and she is trailing smoke."

In spite of, or perhaps because of, her senses being heightened by the adrenaline coursing through her system, the pause in the conversation with Actual hit Yansey with all the acute subtlety of a speed bump on a racetrack; with both her and Betts barely a minute away from jumping feet-first into the center of the firefight taking place of their noses, even seconds felt like eons while waiting for instruction.

"With respect, Actual, we're getting pretty damned close," prodded Yansey. "Do we engage?"

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Taking in a deep breath as she stood there, handset poised at her ear, eyes locked on the only enemy contact that was actually appearing on the screens overhead, Colonel Webber hesitated to make what one part of her mind was screaming was an absurdly simple call; take all three down, eliminate the threat.

Honestly, did it really matter _why_ the two ships were firing on the third?

Nevertheless, she couldn't help hearing that tiny whisper of doubt, a quiet yet relentless uncertainty of the same ilk as that which had prompted her to back Runel's proposition to McQueen about sending a team to Anvil.

Glancing over at McQueen, Webber noted the curious questioning in his eyes as well, his exclamation only a few moments ago impressing upon her that this was apparently an unprecedented event, one perhaps worth investigating further.

Webber made her choice.

"Risky, Fancy, this is Actual," began Webber as she returned her attention to DRADIS. "Weapons _tight_, I say again, weapons _tight_; engage and destroy stealth fighters but do not fire on primary bogey unless fired upon."

* * *

><p><strong>Viper Two-One-One-Three<strong>

"Okay, Betts, you heard her," began Yansey, gently flexing her fingers around the stick as she took in a deep, steadying breath. "Intel says these new birds are slippery bastards so let's make this pass count."

"_Copy that, Fancy; holding tight to your wing_," replied Betts evenly.

"_Fancy, Betts, this is Hotfoot; Stag and I are coming in hot, throttles to the firewall at your six, fifty-five seconds from the merge_."

"Roger that, Hotfoot," replied Yansey, her eyes never leaving the firefight looming ahead. "All units, be advised, I've got visual, confirm two of the new enemy bandits on our bogey's tail, still negative register on DRADIS."

"_Either they don't see us coming or they don't care_," muttered Betts.

"Don't really give a frak either way," countered Yansey, her thumb settling in above the trigger as she pointed her nose directly towards one of the maneuvering enemy stealth ships. "I'm gonna try and clip one with a straight pass, you worry about keeping visual on the other."

"_Copy that_."

"Twenty seconds," snapped Yansey, her body tensing as she lined up for her deflection shot.

But as Yansey was about to unleash her first burst, both of the pursuing stealth fighters suddenly broke off, banking away violently from their pursuit of the bogey, each of them peeling away in opposite directions.

"Frak, looks like they saw us coming after all," burst Yansey as she reflexively yanked her Viper into pursuit of the nearest of the two fighters. "Risky, I hope you're keeping eyes on that second bandit; we don't need that bastard turning onto our tails."

"_Fancy, this is Hotfoot, no worries, we've got visual on bandit two; he's ours_."

"Copy that," replied Yansey, a silent sigh of relief escaping her.

Although grateful to be able to focus in on just the one bandit, confident in the knowledge that Hotfoot and Stag, both of whom were good sticks, had their backs with the second, Yansey was nevertheless having trouble getting a firm bead on her target.

Maneuvering wildly off her nose, banking and turning in grueling defiance of her attempts to slip into firing position, the bandit kept denying her even one moment to line up a shot.

"Frak, this bastard's good," grunted Yansey, the g-forces of her latest turn pushing down hard on her entire body as she held tight to the bandit, its twin engine exhausts looking like a pair of fiery demonic eyes glaring back at her.

"_Offensive weave_?" called Betts, the strain the maneuvers were likewise exerting on his body evident in his tone.

"Do it!" burst Yansey as she pulled into another tight turn. "I'll lead left."

As if it had been listening to the transmission; who knows, maybe it had been; the bandit suddenly lurched upward and away, like a leaf caught in an abrupt updraft, the unexpected maneuver immediately carrying the craft up and almost behind Yansey's Viper.

"Frak!" snapped Yansey as she instinctively countered the maneuver by throwing open her thrust reversers while pitching up the nose of her Viper.

For a split second of sheer terror, Yansey was seized by an utterly disorienting sensation of falling as her Viper lurched backwards, the reversal of thrust and resulting violent shift in inertia sending her stomach up into her throat as she strained to keep her eyes on the bandit, the craft remaining just above her line of fire as it continued to angle back in onto her tail.

Then, just as the bandit began to drop its own nose back towards her and thus bring its own weapons to bear on Yansey's Viper, a maneuver which momentarily gave her an acutely horrifying view almost directly down its cannon barrels, the craft suddenly disappeared in a blinding flash of light.

"Savitri,_ Hotfoot, bandit two has jumped away_."

"Bandit one as well," gasped Yansey, her breathing rapid, her hands and legs beginning to quake ever so slightly as she wrestled with the effects of the copious adrenaline coursing through her blood.

"Savitri_ copies, both bandits have jumped; status of our original bogey_?"

Prodded to the realization that she had for all intents and purposes completely forgotten about the bogey, Yansey's eyes almost frantically darted back to DRADIS.

To her profound surprise, Yansey saw that the bogey had quite literally stopped.

Looking out her cockpit as she straightened back out and brought her nose around, Yansey looked over towards the craft.

"_Savitri_, be advised, bogey has halted its approach," said Yansey as she pulled back on her throttles, kicking out a little reverse thrust in the process to slow her approach. "It's just sitting there at fifteen hundred from your position."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"What the hell could they be up to out there?" muttered Colonel Webber as she glared at the contact on DRADIS.

"Could be damaged," offered Colonel McQueen as he likewise stood watching the screen. "Your pilots did say they saw it take impacts."

"Damage could have left it adrift," countered Webber with a slight shake of her head. "But that ship has come to dead stop."

"And halting its approach wouldn't make sense either if it intended to make a suicide run," sighed McQueen as he likewise continued to eye the lone enemy contact. "Sorry to say, I'm as mystified as you are, Colonel Webber."

Taking in a deep breath, Webber glanced over to Golan.

"Any read on the bandits?" she asked simply.

"Nothing, Colonel," replied Golan evenly. "Rad-detection systems are still clear."

"Get on the horn down to the flight deck," began Webber as she slowly returned her attention to the screens overhead. "I want Raptors and Viper escorts to push out along ninety degree angles from our position; let's get some feelers out there in case they come back."

"Aye, sir," replied Golan simply as he snatched up the handset from his console to relay the order.

"Colonel, our Vipers are requesting instructions," called Petty Officer Deyja.

Pausing a moment to regard the motionless contact on DRADIS, Webber then looked over to McQueen.

"What do you think, Colonel?" she asked simply.

Taking in a long, slow breath, McQueen pondered Webber's question for a moment, a peculiar uncertainty gripping him as he recalled the only other time he'd witnessed a Chig vessel acting this way; a lone scout ship which had borne the Chig Ambassador to the _Saratoga_, a brief hope for peace which had evaporated in the fiery conflagration of the suicide bombing that not only killed several high-ranking officers but cost McQueen his own lower right leg.

Absently, somewhat self-consciously, McQueen reached down and scratched at the area where his prosthetic replacement met natural flesh.

But as he was slowly withdrawing his fingers from the phantom itch, McQueen glanced over at Major Danton.

Hunched as he was over the IFOR radio equipment set up in the CIC for this mission, one hand cupped over the earpiece, his expression lost in concentration, McQueen could hardly ignore Danton's clear preoccupation with whatever he was monitoring.

"Do you have something, Major?" asked McQueen flatly.

Prodded out of his ruminations, Danton looked back over to McQueen, the barest hint of a smirk on his face.

"I'm picking up a signal, sir," began Danton as he absently glanced over at the screens arrayed above McQueen's head. "That Chig is sending out a message in Morse code."

"Well, what does it say?"

"Just one word, sir, over and over," replied Danton, chuckling slightly as he met McQueen's eyes. "Asylum."

* * *

><p><strong>Dolphin Island<strong>

"Good afternoon, Commander."

Lounging in his chair at the edge of sleep, savoring the briny caress of the offshore breeze rolling over him, Adrian Kelso nevertheless opened his eyes to see his former chief engineer, Mike Franklin, ambling his way along the beach.

For a moment, Adrian couldn't help but smirk a bit at the sight of Franklin, dressed as he was in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals, his almost embarrassingly pale legs exposed to natural sunlight for what Kelso only half-jokingly estimated to be the first time in the better part of a decade.

"How's it going, Mike?" grinned Adrian as he did his best to not stare at Franklin's pasty legs.

"Just trying to salvage a bit of my day," grumbled Mike as he sidled up beside Adrian's chair. "They postponed the damned referendum vote again."

"The President probably just wants to wait until our people get back so they can have their say on what to rename the island as well," ginned Adrian as he took in a deep breath.

"They still could have handled it better," huffed Mike as he slowly crossed his arms and looked out towards the horizon. "Damned bureaucrats; I was standing in that fraking line for over two hours before word came down."

"No reason to get excited," countered Adrian evenly, a grin still creasing his lips as he too looked out towards the horizon. "You're retired, Mike; what the hell else did you have planned for the day?"

"Well, for one thing," smirked Mike, making a deliberate show of reaching back behind his back and retrieving the simple flask he'd apparently tucked away in his waistband. "I wouldn't have had to hide _this_ from the poll workers."

"Didn't realize the temperance rule was putting such a cramp in your social life," muttered Adrian as he watched Mike take a sip from the flask.

"It's just frakin' ridiculous," countered Mike as he casually offered the flask over to Adrian. "Acting as though a little liquid lunch is really going to make me choose something more ridiculous than what's already on the ballot; what am I gonna do, pencil in 'Frakwit Island' as an option?"

Smirking a bit, Adrian took hold of the proffered flask and took a swig, a gut-wrenching cough immediately seizing him as the particularly harsh liquid contained there-in scorched its way down his gullet.

"Frankly I can see why they wouldn't want you sipping off of _that_ beforehand," wheezed Adrian as he handed the flask back to Mike. "Potent as it is, I'm surprised you aren't blind."

"Potent, hell, I was practically weaned on this growing up," growled Mike, thumping a fist against his chest with gusto as he took another sip. "My granddad used to cook it up in the shed behind his place; puts hair on the chest."

"As if you really need any more," muttered Adrian as he absently pointed up at the grayed tuft poking out of Mike's shirt collar.

"Badge of honor," countered Mike, chuckling slightly as he slipped the flask back into his waistband. "Having a natural sweater makes it easier to cope with those long winters on Aquaria."

"All things being equal, I think I prefer the beach," grinned Adrian as he settled back a little more into his chair.

"My family would certainly seem to agree with you on that," chuckled Mike as he pointed off along the beach.

Following his former Chief Engineer's gesture, Adrian looked over and caught sight of Mike's grandsons, Joshua and Alexander, playfully tossing rocks off into the surf nearby, the two of them just as gleefully retreating away as the next incoming wave chased them up along the sand.

Nearby, walking along the shimmering shoreline with an almost regal grace was Mike's daughter, Gianne, the slumbering bundle of her daughter Adriana cradled lovingly in her arms.

"Gianne!" barked Mike, his booming voice instantly catching her attention as he insistently waved her over.

Stepping away from her nephews' game of tidal brinksmanship, Gianne made her way over, the gentle breeze catching her long hair as she stepped up to her father and Adrian.

"And how is the youngest Franklin girl doing today?" asked Adrian as he pointed over at the slumbering Adriana.

"It's Adama, actually," grinned Gianne as she slowly knelt down so Adrian could see the face of his nominal namesake, Adriana.

"She's a _Franklin_," interjected Mike adamantly.

"She's an _Adama_," countered Gianne, her tone equally firm as she glared back over at her father. "I'm really sick of having this argument with you, Dad; Lee _is_ her father and his daughter will carry his name; you don't have to like it, but you _will_ accept it."

Suddenly feeling a flush of discomfort at inadvertently prodding what was clearly a potently contentious bit of Franklin family drama, Adrian was nevertheless surprised to note that the normally unflappable Mike seemed to be cowed by the unwavering tone in his daughter's voice, the old engineer mustering little more than a petulant huff as he reached back and once again retrieved the flask from his waistband.

"Well, whatever her last name, she is truly an angel," muttered Adrian as he reached out and gently stroked the slumbering child's particularly pudgy cheek.

Reflexively, Adriana stirred a bit at his touch, pursing her lips slightly as she let out a gentle murmur.

"Looks like it's getting close to feeding time," muttered Adrian as he grinned over Adriana turning towards his touch, her tiny pink lips making a sucking motion.

"Shouldn't be," replied Gianne, chuckling a bit as she watched Adriana stir just a bit more from her nap. "Then again, she doesn't really do much else."

"I have a clothesline full of drying diapers outside our shelter that says different," muttered Mike as he looked back over towards Joshua and Alexander.

"Is that your subtle way of saying she's as full of shit as her grandfather?" smirked Gianne as she gently shifted Adriana around in her arms, masterfully accomplishing the twin tasks of unbuttoning her blouse at the same time she positioned her daughter for feeding.

For his own part, Adrian felt his cheeks flush again as Gianne, completely devoid of any sense of self-consciousness, exposed her breast, Adriana's tiny pink lips instantly latching on to the engorged nipple, an act which elicited a slight hiss of discomfort from Gianne.

Sheepishly going to very deliberate lengths to find someplace for his eye line to be anywhere but in the vicinity of Gianne as she breastfed her daughter, Adrian wrestled with what to even him was a surprising amount of almost squeamish discomfort. Perhaps even more mortifying, his uneasiness was apparently not lost on Gianne.

"You're not embarrassed are you, sir?" she muttered, no small amount of amusement permeating her tone.

"Not embarrassed," muttered Adrian, still going to deliberate lengths to avoid looking at her as he spoke. "Just being respectful; I know this can be a very private moment."

"Private my bulbous pimpled ass," snorted Mike. "That little girl stirs and Gianne just flops 'em out never-no-mind where she is; the marketplace, at temple; hell I've know strippers with more modesty."

"And just where in the name of the gods have you been meeting strippers, Dad?" shot back Gianne, her tone dripping with coy amusement.

"You just never mind where, young lady," replied Mike, coughing slightly as he deliberately avoided Gianne's mockingly accusatorial gaze, instead looking off along the beach towards Joshua and Alexander. "Oh what the hell are those two up to now?"

Prodded by Mike's statement, Adrian looked back over towards Mike's grandsons, the two young boys having apparently abandoned chasing the tide in favor of using a stick to poke and prod something lying unseen in the sand.

"Oh for the love of the gods," growled Mike as he started off along the beach towards the two boys. "Don't tell me they've actually managed to kill something this time."

Chuckling slightly at Mike's grandfatherly frustration, Adrian settled back into his seat, a long breath escaping him as he continued to avoid glancing over at Gianne while she fed her daughter.

"You know, it's really no big deal," muttered Gianne, apparently still very much aware of Adrian's lingering discomfort. "It's perfectly natural."

"I know," smirked Adrian, his voice a bit gravelly from a surprisingly dry throat. "I just don't want to look like some dirty old man angling for a peek."

At that, Gianne chuckled.

For the next few minutes, a subtly awkward silence fell over the two of them, the only sounds being the gentle murmuring of Adriana as she continued to feed and the wind-drowned resonance of Mike's voice as he towered over Joshua, Alexander and whatever it was they'd been poking with a stick.

Within moments, Gianne placed her breast back within the folds of her blouse and lifted Adriana to her shoulder, casting a quick glance over in the direction of her father and nephews as she did so.

"So," sighed Gianne as she looked back over to Kelso and began gently patting Adriana's back. "Has there been any word yet from your son?"

"None that I know of," muttered Adrian as he at last braved a glance back over at Gianne. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, there's just been a lot a rumors going around lately," began Gianne, her tone gauged, somewhat hesitant. "About how your son went out to bring another fleet of survivors back here to Earth."

"People have rumors for every occasion, Gianne" smirked Adrian, his gaze wavering slightly as she continued to watch him.

"I suppose," muttered Gianne as she gently adjusted Adriana. "I just thought that since the Commander is your son you'd have a better picture of what's going on out there."

Taking a deep breath, Adrian held Gianne's gaze.

For most people, rumors were merely about satiating basic human curiosity, an intense nosiness that could sometimes border on intrusive but was still merely a form of tabloid inquisitiveness whose importance could be quickly forgotten amid the minutiae of everyday life.

But as he sat looking into Gianne's eyes, Adrian could hardly miss the pensive intensity in her expectant expression

"I haven't exactly been keeping tabs on the latest gossip," began Adrian as continued to hold her gaze for a moment, gauging her body language. "Why, what have you been hearing?"

"That there's a civilian fleet out there being escorted by two military ships," sighed Gianne as she slowly lowered a happily cooing Adriana back down into her lap. "Battlestars actually…the _Galactica_ and _Pegasus_."

Pausing, Adrian took in another deep breath.

"Mind if I ask why it's so important to you?"

This time it was Gianne who paused, her brow furrowing a bit with worry as she once again glanced back over towards her father.

"It's Lee," sighed Gianne, the barest hint of a smile creasing the edges of her lips as little Adriana reached up and grasped onto one of Gianne's fingers with her tiny hand.

"Adriana's father?"

"Mm-hmm," mumbled Gianne, nodding slightly. "Last I heard, he was supposed to be aboard the Battlestar _Galactica_ the day of the attack."

As he continued to watch Gianne, Adrian could hardly miss the lone tear welling up in the corner of her eye, the offshore breeze catching hold of it and splaying it out across her cheek as it finally spilled forth.

"I know it's a long-shot," began Gianne, rolling her eyes a bit as she quickly reached up and preemptively wiped away a second tear. "I mean, out of all the billions of people in the Colonies, it's stupid for me to hold out hope that he somehow managed to survive, but I can't help but think that after everything else we've been through, maybe, just this _one_ time the gods might actually have given a frak enough to give my daughter a second chance to know her father."

"Your Dad might not be too happy to see him," smirked Kelso as he nodded over towards Mike.

"Dad blows a lot of bluster," grinned Gianne as she too glanced over towards her father. "But the one thing he holds dear is the importance of family; if Lee _is_ alive, Dad won't keep him from seeing Adriana…he might beat the crap out of him first, but he'll still let him be with his daughter."

At that, Adrian let out a loud laugh.

"Well, as much as I'd love to be able to give the provisional police a heads-up about your Dad's imminent eruption, I'm afraid I'm not really privy to much more than you've apparently already heard through gossip," stated Adrian, his tone little more than an audible shrug.

Her expression clearly disappointed, Gianne nevertheless seemed to accept Adrian's response, another tear rolling down along her cheek as Adriana let out a loud squeal, excitedly kicking her feet as she looked up at her mother with that utterly wonderstruck innocence that only an infant could as an offshore breeze rolled over her.

With the sound of flip-flops moving over sand marking his approach, Mike Franklin stepped back up with both Joshua and Alexander a scant step behind.

"So what did you two find over there?" asked Adrian simply as he eyed the two young boys.

"Jus' some ol' jellyfish," shrugged one of the boys as he impulsively reached down and snatched up the broken half of a shell.

"And what have you two been talking about?" asked Mike evenly as he seemed to notice the somewhat distant look on Gianne's face.

"Old war stories; I was just telling her about that one weekend liberty we took on Picon," grinned Adrian, his statement a blatant attempt to distract Mike from prying into something Gianne clearly wasn't ready to discuss.

From the way the man's eyes went wide, it was clear it had worked.

"You'd better damned well not be telling her about that weekend," sputtered Mike, his tone instantly defensive. "You know damned well I had no idea that woman was a…"

Seeming to catch himself on the verge of divulging what he clearly had no desire to, Mike's voice suddenly cut off as he noted the smirk on Adian's face.

"You weren't talking about Picon, were you?" muttered Mike, scowling a bit as Adrian simply shook his head in reply.

"But now that the subject _has_ been brought up, what exactly _did_ happen on Picon, Dad?" chimed in Gianne, clearly enjoying the prospect of giving a little twist to whatever embarrassing mental knife her father plainly had from the incident.

"You just never mind what the hell happened on Picon, young lady," shot back Mike, his already generously sun-kissed and alcohol flushed cheeks still managing to grow just a few shades redder.

With an uncomfortable cough as his best attempt at hurriedly burying the issue, Mike simply began waving his arms a bit.

"Alright, we'd better get going over to the distribution center," barked Mike as he reached down and helped Gianne back to her feet. "Our ration group is up and our cupboard's been getting a bit bare; I don't want to have the same boring damned noodles for dinner again."

"See you later, Mike," grinned Adrian as he watched Mike begin herding his family off along the beach.  
>As he watched them go, Adrian's thoughts, prodded as they were by Gianne's inquiry, naturally settled onto his son.<p>

Much as he'd feigned to the contrary, truth was he too had been keeping an open ear to much of the gossip making its rounds through the community, if only for some subtle reassurance that Sean was okay. The only thing he was certain of for all his passive efforts, however, was that real information, or even just consistent information, was scarce as best.

Taking a deep, almost resigned breath, Adrian did his best to excise the worst thoughts from his mind and settled back into his chair.

Before long, however, his ear began to pick up on something else underlying the crashing sounds of the relentlessly rolling waves, a building crescendo resonating out through the briny air that he couldn't help but notice as it steadily grew in strength.

Glancing off to his right, Adrian caught sight of two neat lines of gray sweats-clad bodies making their way along the beach, the booming call of their collective cadence cutting through the din of the surf as they came inexorably closer; it was the island's Marine detachment on a beach run.

With a subtle mental groan, Adrian recalled the one time he'd endured a beach run during Officer Candidates School; so many decades later and the most compelling memory he had of the surprisingly arduous experience was just how thankful he'd been when it had come to an end.

Beach runs were their own particularly potent form of hell; try as you might, a lot effort was expended in just trying to keep your footing in the shifting sands, so much in fact that even strong runners could find themselves floundering a bit to keep their feet moving forward.

Nevertheless, Adrian couldn't help but feel the approach of the Marines at that moment had an almost serendipitous quality to it as he caught sight of Major Gaines out in the lead of the formation.

Lifting himself from his chair, Adrian began ambling his way down towards the approaching formation, making a very deliberate show of waving at Gaines.

Catching sight of his approach, Gaines pulled out from in front of the formation.

"Sergeant Bowman!" she shouted as she continued to peel away.

"Major?"

"You have the formation," continued Gaines as she slowed to a walk. "Take them out to Marius Point, then back to the guard shack."

"Copy that, Major," replied Bowman as he slipped into the lead of the formation.

Her breathing still a bit heavy, her brow glistening with sweat, Gaines continued making her way over to Adrian as she watched the two lines of Marines continue off along the beach.

"Okay Marines, this one's for the Major, so sound off," shouted Bowman. "This little run is nothing but a test."

Instantly, the combined roar of the Marines rose up in response.

"_This little run is nothing but a test!_"

"And if you fail this test you go to _OCS_," finished Bowman as he cast a smirk back over towards Gaines.

Instantly, the Marines echoed the line with gusto.

"_And if you fail this test you go to OCS!_"

Chuckling to himself as the Marines continued off along the beach, the retreating resonance of their cadence fading back into the background din of the rolling surf, Adrian looked back over to Gaines as she stepped up to him.

"Fraking smartasses," murmured Gaines as she watched her Marines go.

"At least their morale is high," offered Adrian, a slight smirk creasing his lips.

"Well, it needs to be," sighed Gaines as she wiped at the film of sweat on her forehead. "This place may be a paradise, but it's also pretty damned boring."

"Still stinging a bit at being left behind?" muttered Adrian as he and Gaines began ambling their way back towards his chair.

Reaching back, Gaines somewhat absently fiddled with the band that was holding her hair back in a ponytail.

"Over the last several months I've had a lot of rounds thrown my way, one damned near took my head off the first day of the attack, can't say I'm particularly keen on pressing my luck in that respect," replied Gaines as she let out a long sigh. "Still, there _is_ a war on out there; part of me can't help but feel like I'm…shirking my duty a bit."

"I don't think Sean would have assigned you to command the defense detachment if he didn't feel it was important," countered Adrian simply.

"Maybe," shrugged Gaines as she cast a sidewise glance over at Adrian. "But something tells me you didn't flag me down to chit-chat about my career prospects."

"Is that your subtle way of telling me I'm getting a bit single-minded?"

Smirking a bit, Gaines playfully nudged up against Adrian's shoulder.

"No, I'm worried about him too," sighed Gaines.

"I take it there hasn't been any real word then?"

"No, nothing," replied Gaines, biting her lips slightly as she glanced out towards the open sea. "I'm trying not to read into it, I mean, it's only been a few days now and mission rules don't call for a Raptor to check in till the end of the week, but…"

"But it's just not like him to not give us some word on what they've found," muttered Adrian, completing the thought that was clearly making its way through Gaines' mind.

Trouble was it was also going through his own.

Growing up, Sean had been a study in contrast with most of his friends in that he'd been studious about letting his parents know where he was going, what he was up to, even while on dates. And while age and responsibilities may have tempered that tendency somewhat, it was still a part of Sean's nature. The tenets of military protocol might not suggest anything was wrong, but it just wasn't in line with his son's temperament to go this long without sending back some word.

From the shadow of concern lingering in her expression, it was clear that Jordan Gaines understood that as well.

"Well, this _is_ your son we're talking about," sighed Gaines, a strained smile creasing her lips as she looked back over to Adrian. "Damned crazy fool that he is, if the situation warranted it he'd likely find a way to tape a note to an FTL drive and jump it back to us if something fraked up was happening out there."

"I suppose," muttered Adrian. "Still, you'll let me know if you _do_ hear anything?"

"First thing," nodded Gaines as she gave Adrian's shoulder another nudge. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to head back to the guard shack, get a shower, maybe get some paperwork done before those boisterous apes of mine get back from the run."

Chuckling a bit as he watched Gaines make her way up along the beach towards the settlement, Adrian turned back towards the rolling tides as a stiff breeze suddenly rolled in.

Now Adrian had never considered himself a particularly religious man; in his life he'd seen things that others might call a miracle, but he'd also seen things that left him utterly bereft of any belief in a higher benevolence at work in the universe.

But in that moment, as he looked out at the very edge of the horizon, Adrian noticed ominous clouds beginning to appear, roiling, angry, their dark billows punctuated by flashes of lightning, and couldn't help but succumb a bit to bitter irony for a moment by wondering if it the approaching storm wasn't in fact meant as some sick joke by the gods, a purposeful portent meant for him alone.

"Oh, frak you," he hissed as he watched another series of flashes erupt across the distant storm front.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector  
><strong>**Day 20**

Taking very slow, deliberate breaths as he made his way around the periphery of the empty Combat Operations Center, Colonel Thadius Runel gently ran his fingers along the acrylic surface of the large operations table, his mind very much preoccupied with cataloguing the potentials and possibilities the next few minutes might present.

Once the IFOR contingent aboard _Savitri_ confirmed that the lone alien craft was indeed transmitting a request for asylum, he couldn't help but feel it was perhaps moment of minor providence, a chance to do what Commander Kelso had proposed and from Runel's perspective the upper echelon in Earth's military were too myopically intransigent to do; sever the alliance between the Chigs and the Silicates, and by extension, the Cylons.

True, there was as yet no _irrefutable_ proof of Cylon involvement in the conflict, but the stack of circumstantial evidence of such was getting thick enough to build a bunker.

From his perspective, meeting with this apparent envoy was an opportunity that was simply too valuable to turn away.

As he completed his fifth circuit of the table, Runel's fingers came to rest on one of the two translation devices he'd place there.

Would they help in building a bridge, or bear witness to the burning of one?

Roused from his ruminations by the sound of the main entry hatch opening, Runel looked up as Colonel Webber and her IFOR counterpart, Colonel McQueen, made their way into the room.

"Been a while since I was in here," muttered Webber as she made her way over towards the table. "Feels smaller than the one aboard _Savitri_."

"You've never complained about the size of my equipment before," smirked Runel.

"Really?" scoffed Webber as she motioned for Runel to pick up one of the translators. "Fate of the universe could be hanging in the balance and you're quipping light about your endowment?"

"Just trying to lighten the tension," grinned Runel as he reached down and picked up a device, then slipped a wireless earpiece into place. "Not every day you have a chance to make history."

"Speaking from experience, it might not be a good idea to get your hopes up too high, Colonel," chimed in McQueen, his voice filtering in through Runel's earpiece. "Last time one of their envoys met with us, he damned near blew a hole in the side of the _Saratoga_."

"I'll concede that some healthy skepticism is in order, Colonel McQueen," replied Runel as he slipped the device into his pocket. "But since we are still somewhat on the outside looking in on this situation, grant me a little leeway to at least hear what he…it…whatever has to say."

Letting go with a long sigh, McQueen opted not to say anything further, simply bowing his head slightly as he crossed his arms in silence.

With the bulk of the accompanying IFOR contingent aboard _Savitri_, Runel had had little direct contact with McQueen to this point in the mission. The few times he had met with him, Runel had come away with the impression that McQueen was very much a man that played things so close to the vest that the proverbial cards in his hand might as well have been in another room.

Nevertheless, McQueen had also come aboard with impeccable recommendations from numerous high-ranking IFOR officers, their near unanimous consensus being that he was extremely pragmatic in outlook, a trait Runel could respect, or perhaps more accurately, would be counting on during this meeting.

But as McQueen stood waiting by the table, there seemed to be a subtle edge to his demeanor, something difficult to discern, nebulous, a subdued agitation percolating beneath his overall cool exterior.

After two years of war against the Chigs, McQueen could be forgiven for being more than a bit jaded when it came to accepting this envoy's sincerity or legitimacy, but his role in this meeting, what Runel would be counting on, was McQueen's experience in dealing with the Chigs, his greater familiarity with the enemy's habits and nuances.

All he could hope for was that anything McQueen might be feeling at that moment didn't prejudice his perceptions when interpreting those nuances.

As anticipation gave rise to silent tension between the three officers, each of them ruminating over whatever concerns were holding sway over their thoughts, the phone on the wall let out a terse series of buzzes.

Quickly cutting a path over to it, Runel snatched up the receiver.

"Colonel Runel."

"_Sir, Lieutenant Kucero here_."

"Is the envoy aboard?"

"_Yes, sir; no resistance, no weapons, we're on the move to you now_."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

Setting the receiver back in place, Runel let out a long breath.

"Well, the ball is in play," he said simply.

"You know, we never did get an accurate read on the type of explosive the bomber used aboard the _Saratoga_," muttered McQueen. "Best guess was some sort of polymer-based compound woven into the armored suit they wear."

"Then I guess that means you'll be on this end of the table when the envoy gets here," smirked Runel. "I just hope that also means you'll be on our side during this meet-and-greet."

"I'll back your play," sighed McQueen as he looked over towards Runel. "Though I _am_ curious why you didn't send a courier back to advise IFOR of this meeting."

Meeting McQueen's unwavering gaze, Runel let out a slight chuckle.

"My task force, my mission; I hate being micro-managed," said Runel as he ambled his way back over to the table. "More to the point, I'd prefer to have a grasp on the bigger picture before I send back a courier; we send back just bits and pieces, the brass back on Earth might be apt to make some rash decisions. But, if you're worried this might somehow come back on you once your chain-of-command _is_ advised, if you want, my after-action report can say that Colonel Webber and I dragged you kicking and screaming into this meeting."

Surprisingly, McQueen actually grinned a bit.

"Off the record, I couldn't give two cents whether the paper-pushers back on Earth have a full-on stroke over this meeting," began McQueen evenly. "Anything that could rob the Silicates of their safe haven in Chig territory and hasten an end to this war is worth looking into. But as the 'outsiders' in this situation, you should also be prepared for this to turn out to be nothing but crap."

"We're deep inside enemy territory tied to a compromised position while we wait for our recon team to return," chimed in Webber as she looked over at the clock on the wall. "By most measures I think we're already about hip-deep in a pile of crap."

"How much longer before they jump back?" asked Runel simply as he too looked over at the clock.

"Mission rules, thirty minutes," replied Webber. "After that we can jump to the alternate coordinates."

Runel was about to say something further when the entry hatch opened with a loud thump.

As Runel, Webber and McQueen all straightened up a bit at the table, half a dozen heavily armed Marines stepped quickly into the space, weapons at the ready. Fanning out a bit, a measure as much to keep one another out of any potential line of fire as anything, they turned back towards the entryway as another tall, imposing figure stepped into the compartment.

* * *

><p>As the Chig entered the room, McQueen felt every muscle in his body tense.<p>

Ever since the bombing which had taken his leg, McQueen had tried to imagine how he'd react if he ever found himself in a room with another Chig.

Potent as the experience was, fighting on a modern battlefield could sometimes have an almost curious amount of detachment to it. During most skirmishes, combatants exchanged fire with one another from afar, the stand-off range of most weapons introducing a measure of space that could make it an almost impersonal affair; you engaged 'targets' rather than living beings.

Moreover, with the Chigs always hidden within their armor, shrouded from view, even a kill at close quarters lacked a face to see, eyes to watch as the light of life faded away.

All that considered, McQueen would have guessed that being so close to a Chig again would be little or no different from any of the other times he'd encountered them.

Much to his surprise, he was wrong.

In truth, it was a surprisingly visceral experience, a primal fight or flight reaction coursing through every nerve, muscle and cell in his body like an electrical current, prodded and stoked by the shockingly potent memory of how the last time he'd been so close to a Chig it had literally exploded.

But even as dizzying amounts of adrenaline were pouring wholesale into his system, at least one portion of his mind was still cogent enough to notice something else about the Chig.

Although Major Danton had decoded a clear and unambiguous message indicating the Chig was seeking asylum, what the message had _not_ included was exactly whom it was that was making the request.

Most Chig armor had little to nothing to distinguish one alien grunt from another. Officers typically had red highlights and striping of varying complexity; the more ornate the pattern, the higher the rank. To this point in the war, the highest ranking officer ever encountered was the one who'd played the role of suicide envoy aboard _Saratoga_.

From the degree of ornamentation on _this_ Chig's armor, however, it was clear that he was _that_ Chig's superior officer.

"Lieutenant Kucero, pull your Marines back a bit," stated Runel as the Chig stood perfectly still just inside the entryway.

"Aye, sir," replied the surprisingly burly woman standing closest to the Chig.

With a few crisp hand signals, the armed escorts slowly backed off the Chig, placing distance between them, but not necessarily lowering their guard.

"I've got two more teams standing by in the corridor, sir," stated Kucero as she continued to eye the unmoving Chig.

"Were there any others aboard the ship?" asked Webber as she too stood watching the Chig.

"Yes, ma'am, one other, pilot most likely; have a squad watching it down on the hangar deck."

"That's a lot of guns keeping watch, Lieutenant," muttered Runel as he extended a hand, bidding the Chig closer to the table. "Just do me a favor and unpucker a bit; last thing I want is to catch a round because someone in this room let out a fart."

"Aye, sir," nodded Kucero, relaxing, but only ever so slightly.

Consciously aware that it's every move was being warily observed by a half dozen heavily armed guards, the Chig slowly stepped up to the table opposite of Runel, Webber and McQueen.

"Okay, now comes the fun part," muttered Runel as he reached out towards the unused translator still resting on the table. "How do we explain that he can use this to talk to us?"

Glancing over towards the Chig, McQueen took in a deep breath, reached out to Runel, took hold of the device, then began making his way around the table.

Although his heart was pounding away in his chest at a rhythm worthy of an amphetamine-fueled drummer, McQueen nevertheless managed to maintain his overall composure as he handed the device over to the Chig, making a very deliberate show of holding the earpiece up to his own ear before handing it over as well.

Since the Colonials were unable to create a contained area for it to breath its own atmosphere, the Chig remained fully ensconced within its armor and helmet, thus hiding from view its not-too-inhuman facial expressions. In spite of this, however, as McQueen handed over the earpiece, from its somewhat hesitant body language it seemed clear that the Chig was not entirely comfortable accepting the device, as if not fully convinced it wasn't some sort of concealed weapon it was now expected to hold up beside its own head.

If he were to be honest with himself, McQueen would have to admit he almost wished the device _were_ a weapon; standing so close to the Chig, the surprisingly compelling impulse to strangle it with his bare hands was a hard temptation to resist.

Nevertheless, after a few pregnant moments, the Chig complied.

"Can you understand me?" asked McQueen simply.

Instantly, the Chig uttered a few guttural noises and clicks which McQueen from far too many close encounters recognized as Chig speech.

"Yes, I understand you," came the computer translation through the earpiece.

"Good," muttered McQueen curtly as he turned and made his way back around the table to Runel and Webber

In his own mind, it was very much a conscious act; in no uncertain terms did McQueen want to be anywhere near the Chig should the semi-circle of armed escorts feel the need to fire. Moreover, creating space was the surest measure he could take to ensure he himself didn't succumb to the impulse to dispatch the Chig.

"And how about me, can you understand what I'm saying as well?" asked Runel evenly as he looked across at the Chig envoy.

"Yes, I understand you as well."

"Good," sighed Runel, a faint smirk creeping onto his lips. "My name is Colonel Runel, I am in command of this task force; anything you have to say you can say to me."

"As commander of this task force are you authorized to speak on behalf of your government?" asked the Chig.

"I guess that depends on who it is I'm speaking to and what it is you have to say," replied Runel evenly.

"I am…," began the Chig, the translation device cutting out momentarily as the Chig spoke what McQueen could only guess was its own name, something the device clearly had no analogous reference for. "…Supreme Commander of my people's military forces."

"Well, Supreme Commander, since you are the one who contacted us, I guess the best place to begin this conversation is to ask why you did?" said Runel.

For a moment, the Chig seemed to hesitate.

"I am here…to ask for your assistance in driving the Silicates from our home world."

Although his heart had only marginally slowed its pace within his chest, McQueen nevertheless felt it quicken once more as an unanticipated flush of anger swept over him like a tsunami.

"Our _assistance_?" he spat, his tone taking on an edge he felt almost overwhelmed by. "For the last two years you have been waging an utterly merciless war against us, and now you want our _help_?"

"Colonel McQueen," snapped Runel, his own tone just sharp enough to slice through naked rage sweeping over the InVitro.

Sucking in a clipped breath, McQueen looked over and met Runel's gaze.

A rational mind detached from the moment would be able to intuit that antagonizing the Chig served no purpose. But in a very real sense, McQueen realized that at that moment he was very much teetering on a psychological precipice that defied reason.

Beyond the traumas and torments he himself had suffered or witnessed at the hands of the enemy over the course of the war, there was a deeper dignity that seemed to be screaming out from every cell in his body that for this Chig to come here and ask for their assistance required an audacity which bordered on madness. Merely asking the question struck McQueen as an act tantamount to trampling on the graves of the good men and women, the good friends, who'd lost their lives amid the senseless slaughter of the last two years.

It was then that the Supreme Commander unexpectedly asked something that managed to slice through McQueen's roiling indignation.

"Are you the same Colonel McQueen who was present during the negotiations aboard your vessel _Saratoga_?"

At that, McQueen looked back over at the Chig Supreme Commander.

Although the translator had not been able to translate the Supreme Commander's name, surprisingly, it apparently had no such difficulty translating human names.

But more than that, throughout the course of the war, the Chigs had repeatedly demonstrated an almost uncanny ability to ferret out information, often managing to do so in spite of stringent security measures or outright subterfuge. Hearing that the Supreme Commander of the enemy apparently knew him by name was a realization McQueen found decidedly unnerving.

"I am," replied McQueen as an uncomfortable tingle continued to work its way along his spine.

"The bombing aboard your ship…it was a deplorable catastrophe," stated the Supreme Commander. "My subordinate acted quite foolishly; I assure you, his actions were _not_ sanctioned."

"If the negotiations were meant to be in good faith, Supreme Commander, why was the envoy armed with explosives?" asked McQueen flatly. "More importantly, why did your forces renew their attacks following the bombing if it wasn't a sanctioned act?"

"We were unaware he had impregnated his armor with explosives," replied the Supreme Commander evenly. "As for our immediate response, we were not aware that it was our own negotiator who had caused the detonation; we mistakenly believed he had been assassinated. By the time we realized our mistake, the Silicates had overthrown and eliminated our civil government. After that, we had no choice but to continue the war; it became impossible to make peace with your world when the price of defying them was our extermination."

Much to his own surprise, or even his chagrin, McQueen realized that the Supreme Commander's answer was one he could find little rational fault with; quite simply, had the situation been reversed would IFOR have responded any differently?

"Colonel McQueen, I can understand your hostility towards me, it is reasonable, the sentiment behind it one I can only too well understand," said the Supreme Commander. "I have lost my only three offspring in this conflict; losses such as these instill deep and potent attitudes that cannot be easily set aside."

Watching the Supreme Commander as he said as much, McQueen could almost swear that the translator had imbued the Supreme Commander's 'artificial voice' with a somber tone. Was it genuine, something the translator was legitimately able to detect, or was it merely McQueen's own imagination, a shadow of the melancholy in his own heart?

"Nevertheless, events have evolved in ways that force me to consider actions which I once considered unthinkable," continued the Supreme Commander. "If I can come here, set aside my own sense of loss at the hands of your species, can you do the same?"

For a moment, the question hung in the air.

To say that it prompted McQueen to search within his own soul was perhaps a stretch. Nevertheless, it did force McQueen to wrestle with a much more fundamental and perhaps more pressing question; with the survival of the human race very much at stake, was it still possible for him to set aside his animosity and really listen to anything the Supreme Commander might have to say?

* * *

><p>"So you've come here to ask for our help against the Silicates," said Runel evenly, his statement a deliberate redirection back to the underlying issue at hand as he watched the simmering rage ebb somewhat from McQueen's expression.<p>

"It is a request I am compelled to make for the sake of my people's survival," began the Supreme Commander.

"But if you believe the Silicates are willing to destroy your sacred moon in retaliation, why risk coming here?" cut-in Webber as she leaned in over the table a bit. "What's changed?"

For a moment, the Supreme Commander did not answer, instead he simply stood there, silent, his head bowing ever so slightly.

"Because in spite of our acquiescence to their demands, it is clear they are preparing to annihilate my world anyway…just as they are preparing to annihilate yours."

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Four-Five-Eight<br>****Chig Territory – Helios System**

Squatting in the rear of the Raptor, trying her best to find some measure of comfort within the cramped space, Captain Shane Vansen scrolled through the information on the data pad in her hand.

"You're gonna go blind you keep going over that data," quipped West as he gave Vansen's shoulder a gentle nudge with his knee.

"It just doesn't make any sense," sighed Vansen, a slight snort of disgust escaping her as she handed the pad back over to Warrant Officer Gerrity.

"Don't know why you're letting it bother you so much," replied West as he let out a long sigh. "Look, we got something better than we'd been hoping for; proof that the bombs are fake."

"And how many lives did we lose because of those fake casings?" muttered Vansen as she slowly shook her head. "The Chigs thought they were real and they've been hammering our people relentlessly because of it."

"You can't let it eat you up, Captain," chimed in Gerrity.

"How can I not?" spat Vansen bitterly. "If it wasn't for the god-damned Silicates, this fucking war could have been over months ago."

Seething with pent-up anger, Vansen stood back up and began pacing, at least, as far as she could within a confined space occupied by half the recon team; about two paces either direction.

Suffice it to say, it did little to quell her agitation.

Neither did the fruitlessly frustrated punch Vansen gave to the Raptor bulkhead.

"All right, you might want to grab hold back there," called the Raptor's pilot through the translator earpiece. "We're spooled up and ready to jump."

Reaching out, Vansen took a handful of the cargo netting bolted to the bulkhead as her ears picked up the sound of the ship's engines winding up.

A moment later there was a bright flash of light outside the forward canopy.

"Jump complete," called the pilot casually.

"What about the other Raptor?" asked West as he eyed the visibly fuming Vansen.

"No worries, they made the jump too, Captain."

"You know, this whole 'jumping' thing may shave the time it takes to go from one spot to another, but you gotta hate the nausea it gives you," muttered Gunnery Sergeant Rakunas as he sat hunched over, taking in deep breaths.

"It goes away the more times you do it," grinned West as he looked over at Rakunas.

"God, I hope so," muttered Rakunas as he looked up, eyes blinking rapidly. "Usually takes nine or ten shots of straight Jaeger to knot my stomach up like this."

"Suck it up, Gunny," chuckled Gerrity as she took a swig of water.

"Just do us a favor," began in the Raptor's rear seat co-pilot as he glanced over from his panel. "If you're gonna hurl, do it in your helmet."

Although he grinned at first, within the span of a breath a flicker of genuine concern flashed across Gunney Rakunas' expression as he slowly reached over, picked up his helmet, and cradled it in his lap.

Chuckling slightly, West began making his way forward into the cockpit area.

"Mind if I sit side-seat?" he asked simply.

"You can as long as you don't touch any buttons," smirked the pilot as she glanced over at him and motioned towards the empty seat.

Chuckling a bit as he settled into the seat, West let out a long, genuinely satisfied sigh, grateful for the chance to sit after having spent the last few hours humping it through heavy jungle.

"Ensign Placencia, right?" asked West as he glanced over to the pilot.

"That's what it says on my driver's license," replied Placencia.

"Driver's license?" muttered West as he cast her a somewhat quizzical glance. "You had driver's licenses on the Colonies?"

"Oh, yeah, we had all kinds of bizarre things like that," began Placencia, the sarcasm positively dripping from her tone as she reached out and tapped a few controls on the console. "We also had these strange machines called 'cars', wrote bad checks, paid taxes…"

"Alright, point taken," chuckled West. "I guess I just hadn't really thought about it that way before, that on an entirely different planet, things could also be so 'ordinary'."

"Well, all things being equal, as long as the ass is in the same spot, it'd be kinda hard for chair to look any different," offered Placencia as she gave her own posterior a gentle pat.

"You've obviously never seen those Swedish ergonomic ones," countered West as he looked out at the stars beyond the cockpit.

"Your friend back there seems a little pissed," sighed Placencia as she casually motioned back towards Vansen.

"Subtlety's never been her style," smirked West as he glanced back over his shoulder. "Fighting the Chigs has been a hard fight, but when it comes to the Silicates, she's got a pretty big score to settle with them."

"Guess I know how she feels then," muttered Placencia. "Gods know, if I ever run into the Cylons again…"

Just then, the screen at the center of the console let out an alarm.

"Looks like we have a welcoming committee," said Placencia as she quickly tapped at a few icons on the screen.

"Enemy ships?" asked West flatly as he reflexively glanced down at the screen.

"No, IFF tags are coming back as Colonial," replied Placencia as she looked up and pointed out past the canopy. "There, four Vipers and a Raptor."

"Something must have happened while we were away," chimed in the co-pilot from the rear seat. "I'm tracking triple the number of birds out on CAP since we jumped out."

As the quintet of ships continued to close in, the overhead speakers inside the Raptor crackled to life.

"_Inbound Raptors, this is Raptor Niner-Three-Two; verify identity immediately; challenge password is Ridgeview; thirty seconds to respond._"

"Raptor Nine-Three-Two, this is Raptor Four-Five-Eight; challenge reply is Brookhurst," said Placencia as she continued to eye the closing planes.

Although two years of combat had more than acquainted Nathan West with stringent needs of fleet security, as a mere passenger on this flight, he nonetheless had a moment of acute sphincter pucker as he watched the Colonial fighters vectoring in for intercept on the ship he was sitting in.

Nevertheless, from the way the planes suddenly peeled off, it was clear that Placencia had given the correct response.

"I wonder what happened while we were away that they beefed up the aerial patrol," muttered Vansen as she sidled up in between the seats. "Think they'll tell us if we ask?"

Before Placencia had a chance to act of Vansen's question, however, another message filtered in through the overhead speakers.

"_Raptor Four-Five-Eight, this is Niner-Three-Two; verify you have IFOR callsign Queen-of-Diamonds aboard_?"

Glancing back over her shoulder at Vansen for a moment, Placencia immediately answered.

"That's affirm, Niner-Three-Two."

"_Be advised, we have a relay message from IFOR command authority afloat; you are directed to report to IFOR Queen-Six aboard _Enceladus_ for immediate debrief_."

"Guess a shower is gonna have to wait," sighed West as he glanced over to Vansen.

"Almost hate to say it, but I'm not so sure that's a bad thing," muttered Vansen as she gave her uniform sleeve a slight sniff. "My field funk isn't _that_ bad right now, and to be honest, Hawkes seems to be enjoying those co-ed showers aboard _Savitri_ just a little too much for my comfort."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Joint Reconnaissance Mission  
><strong>**Chig Territory - Pegasus Sector  
><strong>**Combat Operations Center**

"So now that your world is under threat as well, you want our help," sighed Runel as he continued to stare across at the Supreme Commander. "That's not exactly what we'd consider an altruistic motive."

"Altruistic motives have been lacking on both sides of this conflict," replied the Supreme Commander evenly. "Nevertheless, I believe the situation has reached a tipping point where we either take the risk of working with one another against this threat, or we risk suffering extinction separately."

"You seem intent on portraying the situation in rather stark terms," began McQueen, pausing long enough to draw a long breath. "However, I'm sure you can understand if we are not so ready to accept the situation as hopeless; our fleet is rebuilding, our forces gaining in strength…"

"Your species' ability to adapt to military realities is impressive," cut in the Supreme Commander. "However, the information your intelligence assets have gathered on Silicate activities in our territory is doubtless incomplete."

"Care to enlighten us on what we've missed?" asked Runel flatly.

For a moment, the Supreme Commander stood silent.

"Only if you agree to help us," he finally said.

"But how can we be sure it's worth the risk if we don't know what you have to offer?" interjected Webber.

Again, the Supreme Commander stood momentarily silent.

"Interesting that you put it in those terms yet only a moment ago questioned my lack of an altruistic motive in contacting you," said the Supreme Commander, the translation device imbuing the statement with an audibly perceptible amount of irony.

"You attacked us first, drew the first blood in this war," countered McQueen coolly. "We have every right to demand that our trust be earned, not just given; you need to give us something or this conversation is pointless."

As he glanced over and saw McQueen little more than staring coldly across at the Supreme Commander, Runel was beginning to question whether including McQueen had been an error.

To be sure, even by the Supreme Commander's own admission, McQueen had cause for bitterness; the war between humanity and the Chigs had been marked by moments of vicious fighting and abject barbarism, one only needed to reread Major Gaines' after-action report regarding the butchered human bodies her team had found to know that.

But, there was also a point where antagonism ceased to be anything but its own deleterious servant.

To Runel, McQueen seemed to be treading along the razor-thin edge that delineated helpfulness from hindrance.

For a moment, it seemed as if the negotiations, such as they were, had completely stalled, with neither side speaking so much as a word; it was a painfully palpable silence that was broken only when the handset on the wall began buzzing incessantly for attention.

Somewhat thankful for the break in the tension, Runel took in a deep breath, removed his translator earpiece, tossing it down with a slight clatter on the tabletop, and stepped over to the handset, snatching it up like a veritable lifeline.

"Runel."

"_CIC, Lieutenant Birch, sir; the recon team has returned, no casualties reported; the Raptor with Captain Vansen is coming aboard now_."

"Contact the Chief of the Deck, have Captain Vansen brought to COC then coordinate with _Savitri_, bring the CAP back in and jump us to the alternate coordinates when all birds are skids-down."

"_Aye, sir_."

Hanging the handset back up, Runel turned back to the expectant faces of Webber and McQueen.

Stepping back over to the table, Runel retrieved the earpiece and slipped it back into place.

"Colonel McQueen, you'll be happy to hear that your people are back safe and sound," began Runel as he met McQueen's somewhat questioning gaze.

"Casualties?"

"None reported," replied Runel. "Per your request, Captain Vansen is coming aboard now."

It really didn't take much more than a stroll to remind Vansen of just how big the Colonial warships were by comparison to the _Saratoga_.

Even the corridors themselves, with their vaulting A-shaped ceilings, were comparatively spacious; one almost never needed to duck while stepping through an access hatch and rarely needed to side-step someone coming the opposite direction. She'd certainly banged her shins on enough knee-knockers and run up against enough exposed pipes aboard the '_Toga_ to be able to appreciate such comparatively palatial amounts of space.

The only down side was that it seemed to take forever to actually reach any one particular location, with enough twists and turns that even the crude handwritten signs in English taped to the bulkheads walls were of only dubious worth.

Fortunately, the armed escort leading both her and Warrant Officer Gerrity through the labyrinth seemed to know exactly where she was going, taking each turn and ladderwell without the least sign of hesitation.

"Just make sure you have that data ready, Gerrity," muttered Vansen. "From the looks of that Chig ship down on the hangar deck, I'm guessing Colonel McQueen is going to be very interested in what we found down on Anvil."

* * *

><p>Although McQueen had been somewhat taken aback at first when Runel suggested he step out and take Vansen's report out in the corridor, ostensibly to hear what the recon team had found away from the potentially prying ears of the Supreme Commander, having had a few minutes now to cool both his heels and his temper, he had to admit it had probably been a smart idea.<p>

And yet that alone irked McQueen on an entirely different level; not only had he lost his objectivity, he had clearly done so in such a blatant fashion that someone else had felt the need to reign him back in, however obliquely.

Taking in a deep breath, McQueen wondered which wounded his pride more; losing control, or someone else knowing he had.

With his ears perking up a bit at the sounds of booted footfalls on the hard alloy decks, McQueen looked up in time to see Vansen and Gerrity as they and an armed escort rounded the corridor at the far end.

Rather than simply waiting, McQueen instantly set off towards them.

As she stepped up, the armed guard who'd been escorting Vansen and Gerrity gave only a slight nod and took a few steps off down the corridor.

"We saw the Chig ship down on the hangar deck, sir," began Vansen as she glanced past McQueen and noted the armed squad waiting in the corridor. "I take it we have a visitor onboard?"

"You could say that," muttered McQueen laconically. "How did the recon mission go, did you meet any resistance?"

"None, sir," replied Vansen as she motioned towards Gerrity. "No Chigs, no Silicates, but we _were_ able to get a good look at a few of the devices on the surface."

As Vansen spoke, Gerrity held out the data pad in her hand to McQueen.

"Since you're here in one piece, can I assume you figured out a way to disarm the bombs?" asked McQueen as he took hold of the pad.

"Better," grinned Gerrity as she watched McQueen begin scrolling through the information. "We checked out five devices just to be sure, but as you can see, Colonel…"

"They're _empty_?" popped McQueen, looking up from the pad with little more than surprise.

"Yes, sir," nodded Vansen. "From the outside, they look pretty impressive, have some flashing lights and bits of faux electronics, but they're nothing but shells, no explosives or toxins of any kind."

Pausing, McQueen scrolled through the information again, reading and rereading the truncated data in little more than disbelief, a peculiar excitement creeping into his calculating expression.

"You have no idea how important this discovery is," he said simply.

* * *

><p>"Here's what I have trouble understanding," sighed Runel, pausing for a moment as he looked across at the Supreme Commander. "If your people have been watching Earth for several millennia, you obviously have vast technological advantages; why did your people wait until now to attack?"<p>

"Primitive as your species is, we had no desire to conquer you," replied the Supreme Commander evenly. "We were content to leave your world alone, at least, until you began encroaching on our territory."

"Nevertheless, your planet _did_ develop an impressive military capacity," interjected Webber. "Seems to me that you thought a conflict was inevitable; you didn't even try diplomacy, peaceful contact."

"In watching your world, the wars your people have fought, the suffering you have inflicted upon yourselves time and again, we had no reason to expect you would react any differently once our civilizations came into contact with one another," began the Supreme Commander, pausing to look over at a couple of the armed guards posted around him. "For better or worse, those beliefs were only reinforced by the Silicates when we first came into contact with them."

Although he found it strange to hear the Supreme Commander speaking in terms such as 'your world', seemingly as though he thought the Colonials were from Earth as well, there was a deeper underlying nugget of truth about his 'species' that Runel could not readily deny.

While Runel had spent more than a few of his off-duty hours over the last couple months going through information about Earth's history, most of that pertained only to the current conflict. But when it came to a subject with which he was quite well versed, specifically the history of the Twelve Colonies themselves, he could readily provide replete examples of the brutal depravity human beings were capable of inflicting upon one another, especially from the periods before unification.

Hell, even the Cylons themselves had at one point been merely another weapon for humans to unleash upon other humans.

"Nevertheless, that was the testimony of a vanquished enemy," countered Runel, a long sigh escaping him as he buried down his internal musings on human barbarism. "The Silicates had been driven from Earth after they rebelled; did it never occur to you that they might be lying about humans?"

"It did," replied the Supreme Commander. "But when we saw that your world was developing a military fleet capable of reaching our territory, it only seemed to confirm what we already feared; your people were a threat that needed to be contained."

"And so, in response, you developed a fleet of your own," sighed Runel, the conclusion seemingly obvious.

For a moment, the Supreme Commander was silent.

"No, you misunderstand me," he finally said. "We already had a fleet, we simply prepared ourselves to meet what we saw as the most immediate threat."

"But you just said that you didn't begin to see Earth as a threat until it developed a fleet," muttered Webber, her eyes narrowing a bit as she looked at the Supreme Commander. "If you didn't see human beings as a threat before that, why did you already have a fleet?"

"Because we also found the ship," replied the Supreme Commander evenly. "We've never encountered those who built it, but its mere existence was enough to convince us of the need to defend ourselves should they ever return."

Now it was Runel and Webber who paused, the two officers exchanging a momentary yet utterly confused glance.

"What ship?" asked Webber as she slowly looked back across to the Supreme Commander.

Again, the Supreme Commander hesitated, his head turning ever so slightly, looking first at Webber, then at Runel.

"Your feigned ignorance is hardly convincing," began the Supreme Commander, his hand slowly motioning at the room around them. "We know your world discovered it as well, the evidence is all around us. We had assumed that because of its physical state there was little your race would be able to reverse engineer from it; clearly we were wrong."

Almost instantly, Runel felt as though he'd been thrown head first into a murky pool of perplexity; simply put, he had absolutely no idea what hell the Supreme Commander was talking about.

Were the translators malfunctioning?

"Forgive me, Supreme Commander, but I'm just a little confused," began Runel, hesitating a bit as he tried to grope his way through his sudden puzzlement. "Are you saying that your people found a ship built by some _other_ aliens?"

"Yes."

"And you think Earth found it too and built _this_ ship, _my_ ship, using technology salvaged from it?"

"Yes."

Again, Runel and Webber looked to one another.

"Okay, this whole conversation just took a hard left turn into bizarre," muttered Webber, sucking in a slight breath, her expression contorting a bit with the confusion she felt. "Supreme Commander, are you saying you think _we_ are from Earth?

"Yes," replied the Supreme Commander flatly.

Taking in a slow breath as he tried to wrap his mind around the Supreme Commander's perplexing assertion, Runel was left bereft of any explanation that didn't involve the translators suddenly developing a serious glitch. The only evidence he had to the contrary was that Webber was apparently hearing the exact same responses he was from the Supreme Commander.

"Okay, I think there's been some rather profound miscommunication here," sighed Runel as he reached up and scratched at the stubble forming on his chin. "Supreme Commander, we are _not_ from Earth."

"But you are human," countered the Supreme Commander, his tone clearly growing flustered. "I fail to see what this attempt at deception serves; I came here in good faith to seek your assistance."

"I assure you, Supreme Commander, we are not trying to deceive you," countered Runel firmly. "Colonel McQueen is from Earth, but _we_ are not, our ships were not built by Earth…frankly, I'd think the rather drastic design differences would be an indicator of that much to you…and our uniforms, frak, our _language_…"

At that, Runel's voice trailed off; partly because he was little more than dumbfounded as to how the Supreme Commander had come to the conclusion they were from Earth, and partly because he felt stymied in proving it since they themselves still did not know where the Twelve Colonies were.

For a moment, the Supreme Commander stood silent, the only sound being what Runel and Webber could only guess was deep and increased respiration; an unsettling sign of the Chig's mounting agitation.

"Okay, let's try this another way," muttered Webber, a cold tingle rolling along her spine as she tried to divine what was happening behind the expressionless helmet staring at her. "Why do _you_ think _we're_ lying?"

At first, the Supreme Commander answered her question with silence, that same damned maddening silence as it slowly looked at Webber, then to Runel, then at the armed guards encircling it.

After several tense, uncertain moments, the Supreme Commander slowly reached down to a device affixed to his thigh. As he did so, Runel's mind instantly flashed to Colonel McQueen's warning that IFOR had never figured out what type of explosive had been used aboard _Saratoga_.

"Marines!" snapped Runel.

Instantly, six rifle muzzles popped up, each aimed squarely at the Supreme Commander's torso.

Save for an almost imperceptible head movement, the Supreme Commander froze.

"Trust," he said simply, then resumed reaching for the device.

With slow, deliberate movements, clearly very much aware what the six rifles aimed at him were capable of unleashing, the Supreme Commander retrieved the device, then slowly set it onto the table top.

His heart racing at a few hundred beats more than he would have wished, Runel watched warily as the Supreme Commander pressed a small protrusion on the device.

Almost instantly, directly above the device, a swirl of pixilated light appeared.

"Is that a hologram?" muttered Webber.

"Yes," replied the Supreme Commander evenly as the pixels slowly resolved themselves into an image.

"Pretty remarkable technology," said Runel, his tone genuinely impressed.

But even as he expressed his admiration of the device itself, a slow tingle began working its way along his spine as the pixels resolved themselves into a recognizable image.

"Holy _frak_…," whispered Webber, her tone both stunned and astonished, perhaps even a bit frightened as she leaned in a bit over the table. "Thadius, is that what I think it is?"

Caught momentarily speechless, Runel could not reply; the image was indeed one he recognized only too well.

The ship was wrecked, ravaged, with large sections of her armor plating sheared away she was little more than a battered hulk resting amid a scattered smattering of debris within a deep ravine, a runoff path gouged into a planet's surface by her impact.

Shattered as it was, though, it was nevertheless all-too-easy recognizable.

A Colonial Battlestar.

"You accuse _us_ of lying to _you_?" snapped Runel, a sudden flush of anger sweeping over him. "That is _fake_, a forgery generated from any number of images your forces could have taken of the _Pacifica_ or _Asterica_…"

"No!" burst the Supreme Commander, his tone, even through the translator, clearly incensed. "This _is_ the ship which resides on the innermost planet of your system, the one your people call 'Mercury'."

Looking again at the image of the broken Battlestar, Runel felt his body begin to quake ever so slightly, a faint nausea gripping his stomach.

This _had_ to be a lie.

"We discovered it on the planet's surface approximately ninety thousand of your years ago," continued the Supreme Commander. "Based on our projections, by that time the ship had already been there for sixty thousand years."

Transfixed, wholly unable to look away from the image, Runel felt his heart pounding in his chest as he mentally fumbled with the impossible numbers being quoted by the Supreme Commander.

"Are you telling us that _that_ ship crashed onto the surface of Mercury one-hundred and fifty _thousand_ years ago?" muttered Webber, her tone lost in awe.

"Yes."

His previous flash of anger still seething at a low boil, Runel looked up at the Supreme Commander with little more than reactionary contempt, a thousand random thoughts rampaging through in his mind.

One-hundred and fifty thousand years…that _had_ to be a lie.

But beyond that, the image of the demolished Battlestar prompted still deeper concerns in Runel.

Was this the proof they'd been looking for, evidence that the Cylons were in fact lurking nearby?

Had the Chigs destroyed the ship themselves and were now attempting to mask their culpability behind this ludicrous story of it crashing there untold millennia ago?

Had the Silicates destroyed the ship?

Dear gods; had Earth?

As Runel's eyes returned to the image of the shattered Battlestar, his mind reeling with all the potential ramifications, real, imagined or simply paranoid as the case may be, the Supreme Commander again reached out and pressed the protrusion.

Instantly, the image changed, the pixels blurring for a moment before once again resolving into another image, this one apparently much closer to the wreck; it was the forward section of the mangled remains of what would have been the port flight pod.

"Oh, my gods," whispered Runel, his reeling indignation of only moments ago choking within his throat as every hair on his body stood on end.

Marred as it was, charred and weathered, one word nevertheless stood out with chilling clarity, utterly heartrending but nevertheless recognizable.

One word.

One _impossible_ word.

_Galactica_.

Looking up at the Supreme Commander, Runel's glare was dripping with acid disdain.

"Thadius," prodded Webber, watching him intently as she motioned her head towards the ready Marines.

Glancing over into her eyes, one very simple idea coalesced out of the swirling maelstrom of Runel's thoughts; he need to know rights gods damned now whether the Supreme Commander was lying.

And if he wasn't…

Turning hard on his heels, he purposefully strode over to the phone on the wall and snatched up the handset with all the brooding fervor of a man ordering a vengeful execution.

"_CIC, Lieutenant Birch_."

"I want two Raptors prepped immediately; one outfitted with a full ELINT and surveillance package, the other fully armed as escort, then get your ass down here to COC," snapped Runel, slamming the handset back down as he looked back over to the Supreme Commander. "You want us to believe you, to help you, tell me exactly where that ship is."

* * *

><p>After she'd given him her full report, frankly nothing short of an exhaustive analysis of the fake casings right down to what color each of the individual flashing lights were, McQueen had dismissed Gerrity, the EOD tech returning to the hangar deck with the guard who'd escorted them there in the first place.<p>

Now alone with Vansen in the corridor, at least, as alone as they could be with half a squad of heavily armed guards milling about only a few meters away outside the conference room, McQueen took a deep breath as he considered his next move.

"Whoever is in that room will probably have a lot to say about what we found, sir," prodded Vansen as she noted McQueen's reticence.

"To be honest, important as this intel is I'm not all that keen on going back into that room, Captain," muttered McQueen as he cast a wary glance back over his shoulder towards the hatch. "Looking at that Chig really got under my skin."

"Can't say I blame you, sir," sighed Vansen as she too looked over towards the entryway. "Just looking at a Chig has creeped me out ever since we ran into that first one on Mars; with everything that's happened since, they're hardly what I would consider warm and fuzzy to be around. To be honest, after what they've put you through, I'm surprised you didn't gut him with that butterfly knife of yours."

Smirking a bit, McQueen let out a long breath.

"The thought crossed my mind," muttered McQueen as he looked back over to Vansen. "Hell, if word got back that I'd killed the Supreme Commander of the entire Chig military, I'd likely never have to buy a drink in a bar again for the rest of my life."

"Supreme Commander?" asked Vansen as she cast a glance over towards the entryway.

"His armor stripes are certainly ornate enough," nodded McQueen. "Granted we only have his word and nothing else to vet his credentials, but he claims to be the highest ranking officer in their military."

"Kill him and they ought to give you a medal," muttered Vansen as she let out a long sigh.

"Forget the medal, I'd rather take the drinks," smirked McQueen. "But if this envoy _is_ legit, my personal feelings aside it might be worth hearing what it has to say; if it has some new intel on what the Silicates have in store for Earth, it could save a lot of lives."

As the two of them slipped back into silence for a moment, McQueen pausing to not only digest the report a bit more, but to consider how he might be able to best leverage that information with the Supreme Commander, the dull thump of a hatchway opening resonated down the corridor.

Both of them glancing back over to the conference room, McQueen and Vansen caught sight of another Colonial officer ducking into the room.

"I'd better get back in there," muttered McQueen as he turned and began making his way back to the entry hatch.

After a few scant steps, he paused, then glanced back over his shoulder to Vansen.

"I want you in there too, Captain," he muttered. "This report might have more impact if it comes from the one whose boots were actually on the ground."

* * *

><p>Following close on Colonel McQueen's heels, Vansen stepped into the compartment.<p>

Although she'd left most of her combat and environmental support gear down on the hangar deck, with the dull, moldy stench of the Anvil's jungle environment and methane atmosphere mixed with the grimy musk of her own body's sweat and grunge doubtless wafting from the very fabric of her uniform, she couldn't help but feel a touch out of place being in the midst of a formal negotiation.

Nevertheless, there she was.

Colonel Webber she recognized almost instantly, the CO of the _Savitri_ standing to one side of a large plot table with two other Colonial officers.

But for Shane Vansen, the most striking facet of that moment was the sight of a Chig, ostensibly the Supreme Commander of the Chig military, standing at the center of a semi-circle of heavily armed guards opposite of them.

Although most of her own worst traumas in this conflict had actually come at the hands of the Silicates, the mere sight of the Chig nevertheless sent a cold chill along her spine, her eyes reflexively scowling a bit as the animal segment of her mind stirred with an almost instinctual disdain.

As such, she barely managed to look away from the imposing figure as she and McQueen made their way around the plot table towards the trio of Colonial officers.

* * *

><p>As he and Vansen stepped up to Runel and Webber, McQueen couldn't help but notice that their overall demeanor seemed to have shifted considerably since he'd left the room.<p>

Subdued, guarded, they both looked over at him and Vansen, their eyes, at least to him, almost wary as Runel slowly held up his hand, motioning for McQueen to wait a moment.

As he stood there, McQueen watched as Runel and Webber spoke a few brief words to the third officer with them and noted, much to his puzzlement, that he was not hearing a translation through his earpiece.

Pulling the translator from his pocket, McQueen looked at the screen and was genuinely surprised to see that Runel and Webber had blocked their links to his device.

Scowling slightly as he looked up from the screen, McQueen watched as the third officer nodded, then began making his way around towards the Supreme Commander. Pausing for a moment as he stood beside the imposing figure, he then took hold of an odd looking device resting on the table, Chig technology best as McQueen could tell from the looks of it, and quickly made his was back towards the entry hatch.

As the officer exited the room, Runel and Webber both stood there for a moment staring at McQueen and Vansen, a few more curt and frustratingly untranslated words passing between them before both Runel and Webber pulled their translators back out of their pockets and tapped a few icons on the screen.

Looking back down at his own device, McQueen saw that the links to Runel and Webber had been unblocked.

"Is something wrong?" asked McQueen simply as he looked up from the screen and slipped the device back into his pocket.

Taking a long breath, Runel looked across at the Supreme Commander, then back to McQueen.

"Is this the officer who was in charge of the recon mission?" asked Runel evenly.

"Yes, Captain Shane Vansen," replied McQueen, looking first to Runel, then to Webber. "Vansen, this is Colonel Runel, commander of the task force."

"Sir," nodded Vansen.

Runel in turn gave her a slight nod as well.

"Before Vansen gives her report, Colonel Runel, is there something the two of you have to tell us?" asked McQueen flatly.

Exchanging a momentary glance with Webber, Runel let out a long, almost gloomy breath.

"The Supreme Commander just turned over some new intel to us," began Webber, her tone guarded, precise. "Rather provocative really."

"What kind of intel?" asked McQueen as he watched the two Colonial officers intently, gauged their expressions.

"His people may have had contact with another Colonial warship," replied Runel, a cool edge evident in his voice, cautious, almost accusatorial. "As an act of good will, he's given us their location; we're sending out a recon mission to see if the information pans out."

"That sounds like _good_ news," muttered Vansen.

From the tone in Vansen's voice, it seemed clear, at least to McQueen, that she too was picking up on the undercurrent of tension emanating from Runel and Webber. With that as confirmation that he wasn't just imagining it, McQueen's curiosity over why their attitudes had indeed shifted so profoundly only deepened.

"I should think that word of other survivors from your civilization would be cause for celebration," said McQueen as he continued to watch for any subtle cues in Runel's and Webber's expressions.

"Time will tell," replied Runel, his own eyes clearly reading McQueen as well. "But back to the recon mission; did your people find anything useful?"

McQueen had been given the brush off enough times to know that that was exactly what he was receiving at that moment. Worse still, it was clear that whatever had transpired in this room, whatever information the Supreme Commander had turned over while he'd been out in the corridor, it had had an acute effect on how Runel and Webber were now regarding him.

For Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen, a man who was nearly devout in adhering to the dictates of honor, regarded his own integrity as both sacrosanct and inviolate, it was little short of infuriating to think that Runel and Webber might now be judging him through the prism of some unknown information without giving him an opportunity to refute or challenge it.

Nevertheless, the more pressing concerns of the moment, of being deep inside enemy territory, of a Chig standing on the other side of the room, seemed to trump, at least for now, his personal feelings on the matter.

"Are you certain you don't want to hear what she has to report in private first?" asked McQueen evenly, casting a subtle nod towards the Supreme Commander as he did so.

"No, I don't think so," replied Runel pensively as he looked across to the Supreme Commander. "Maybe hearing it right now, first hand, will go a long way towards establishing that trust the Supreme Commander is so anxious to create…"

Slowly, Runel's gaze returned to McQueen.

"…as well as ensure everyone in this room is telling the truth."

While it struck McQueen as perhaps the most blatant double-standard he'd ever come across for Runel to be paying lip-service to everyone being truthful while clearly withholding information himself, until he knew more about what had transpired while he was in the corridor, McQueen was left with seemingly few avenues of protest; Runel was after all still in command of the mission.

* * *

><p>As she watched the frankly brusque and sub-textually charged interplay taking place between McQueen, Webber and Colonel Runel, Vansen couldn't help but feel a bit indignant.<p>

For reasons she couldn't even begin to guess at, the two Colonial officers were acting as though Colonel McQueen had in some way betrayed them, a notion she found as ridiculous as it was infuriating; if ever there was a man whose word could be trusted like that of the most holy on high, it was the word of Colonel Tyrus Cassius McQueen.

You might not like what he had to say, but you could damned well be certain it was the truth.

"What did your team find, Captain?" asked Runel simply as he looked over at her.

Glancing over at McQueen as he took a subtle step backwards, Vansen locked eyes with him for a moment, hesitant until she saw him give the slightest nod.

Drawing in a breath, Vansen looked back over to Runel and Webber.

"As you know, my team inserted was inserted onto Anvil…"

As the words left her mouth, a deep, sonorous growl erupted from the Chig standing on the far side of the room.

Instantly, the attention of everyone snapped back to it.

Indeed, so abrupt and startling was the outburst that the semicircle of armed guards surrounding it had their muzzles poised and ready even before Vansen had completed sucking in a startled breath.

"You sent soldiers to our sacred moon!" burst the Supreme Commander, the translation filtering in through Vansen's earpiece with little short of acid contempt dripping from every word.

Genuinely surprised that the guards had not simply gunned the Chig down, Vansen hesitated as Runel, Webber and McQueen all stood staring back over at it, all of them clearly as unnerved by the outburst as she was.

"We needed to ascertain what threat the Silicate devices on the surface posed," snapped Runel as he surged a few steps forwards towards the table.

"If the Silicates detected the presence of your team…"

"Our presence was _not_ detected," countered Vansen flatly.

"How can you be certain?" growled the Chig.

"We encountered no patrols, took no fire…" snapped Vansen, her previous shock giving way to reflexive anger.

"There could be surveillance drones, sensor nets, clandestine scouting parties, any one of these things could be deployed in the area," replied the Supreme Commander, by his very demeanor clearly not taking any appreciable heed of the six heavy rifles aimed squarely at it. "How do you know the Silicates won't detonate the devices in retaliation?"

"Because there are no explosives!" burst McQueen, his statement instantly grabbing the attention not only of the Supreme Commander but of Webber and Runel as well.

As the guards surrounding the Supreme Commander stood poised, very much still ready to fire, a moment of tense silence held sway as Runel slowly looked back over to Vansen.

"Is that true, Captain?" asked Runel evenly.

"Yes, sir, it is," replied Vansen, her breathing still a bit ragged from the surge of adrenaline prompted by the Supreme Commander's outburst.

As another moment of tense silence fell over the room, everyone looked back over to the Supreme Commander.

With his upper body heaving slightly, it seemed clear the Supreme Commander was every bit as agitated as the rest of them were, nevertheless, it said nothing.

"Continue your report, Captain," muttered McQueen evenly as he continued to watch the Supreme Commander pensively.

"Supported by Explosive Ordnance techs familiar with both Chig weapons and Silicate improvised explosives, we scouted five separate devices," continued Vansen as she casually motioned towards the data pad McQueen was still holding. "All five when opened were found to be empty; no explosive charges, no toxins; they're just hollow shells."

As everyone fell silent once more, looking across at the Supreme Commander, waiting for some sign, some hint of what it was thinking or about to do, McQueen suddenly turned on his heels and began making his way around the table towards the Supreme Commander.

"I'm not going to lie to you," began McQueen bitterly, almost mockingly as he looked down at the pad and began slowly panning through the photos. "There's a part of me that really wouldn't give a damn if the Silicates wiped out your world, would almost be your just reward for starting this damned war in the first place, for allying with Silicates, for giving them safe haven within your territory and the resources they needed to build ships and new bodies."

Clearly watching McQueen as he made his way around the table, the Chig Supreme Commander flexed the fingers of his free hand, a clenched fist soon forming that seemed all-too-ready to strike once the Colonel was close enough.

"But, there's also a part of me that understands that in every war there are innocents who suffer needlessly," continued McQueen as he looked up from the pad. "Now I don't know if you swear any sort of oath, but I do know that as a soldier, like me, your _duty_ is to protect the lives of those innocent people, at the cost of your own if necessary, not to offer them up as slaves."

As he at last arrived on the far side of the table, McQueen nudged his way past one of the armed guards, motioning brusquely for them all to back off as he boldly came virtually nose-to-nose with the Supreme Commander, holding up the data pad for him to see as he again almost mercilessly scrolled through the photos of the casing interiors.

"Now, you want us to trust you, to _help_ you, first I want to know what you plan to do about _this_," growled McQueen contemptuously as he practically shoved the data pad closer to the Supreme Commander's helmeted face. "You said the _only_ reason this war has gone on this long is because the Silicates were holding this phantom threat of genocide over your people, well, how do you plan to respond now that you know the truth?"

His frustration clearly bubbling over at having to stare into an unreadable helmet, McQueen, little more than disgusted, tossed the pad town onto the tabletop with a clatter.

"The Silicates _lied_ to you, Supreme Commander," hissed McQueen. "You _failed_ to protect your people once already, betrayed them over a baseless fear, so now I want to know; what will you do about this?"

* * *

><p>For a moment, the human's scathing question simply hung heavy in the air, the words themselves little more than a scornful indictment leveled against everything the Supreme Commander had done, every choice he had made since the Silicate coup.<p>

Slowly looking over to the device McQueen had tossed down onto the table, the Supreme Commander took a few heavy, tentative steps towards it, his eyes locked on the images of the empty casings, his mind was reeling.

In that moment, with the apparent revelation that his people had suffered and died by the scores, had been enslaved and sacrificed in the vain hopes of preventing their genocide at the hands of the Silicates, only to be once more betrayed, that it had been nothing more than a deception far beyond cruelty was at last more than the Supreme Commander could bear.

With his respiratory membranes shuddering from the irresistible rage quaking through every cell in his body, the Supreme Commander, utterly bereft of caring whether the armed guards surrounding him opened fire, threw his hands into the air and howled.

* * *

><p>As the blood curdling screech resonated off the very walls, everybody in the room jumped back in little short of startled terror at the naked rage emanating from the Supreme Commander.<p>

For an instant, the entire scene seemed to spiral towards utter chaos as the hatchway exploded open, a flood of additional armed bodies rushing in, weapons at the ready.

"Hold your fire!" cried Runel, arms thrown wide, his voice almost drowned out by the Supreme Commander's reverberating cry, his entreaty little short of a desperate bid to keep the Marines from gunning the Chig down.

With uncertainty and trepidation reigning supreme, it seemed no small miracle that a hail of gunfire _didn't_ erupt, Runel's entreaty apparently enough, if only just, to stay his Marines' trigger fingers as the Supreme Commander suddenly lunged forward.

With a crash, the Supreme Commander brought an armor-encrusted fist down hard onto the data pad, the device and the acrylic surface of the plot table shattering from the impact.

With anxious, expectant eyes, everyone stood watching the Supreme Commander, his entire form visibly trembling, his quaking fist still resting amid the shattered remains of the data pad and splintered table top, head bowed slightly.

Her own body trembling slightly, Vansen cast a wary glance over towards McQueen as he stood near the epicenter of over a dozen heavily armed and poised soldiers.

McQueen for his own part took the slightest step backward from the hunched form of the Supreme Commander, a prudent acknowledgment of the fact that if gunfire did erupt, there was no way he'd emerge unscathed at such close quarters.

Both Runel and Webber seemed equally uncertain, Runel's expression one of clear and legitimate concern that one of his still visibly keyed-up Marines might still fire as he silently motioned them all to back away.

After an utterly agonizing pause, the Supreme Commander at last looked up from the shattered data pad, his gaze seeming to settle on Colonel Runel as it lifted the translator ear piece, almost miraculously still intact, back up beside his head.

"Return me to my people."

* * *

><p><strong>Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System<br>****Orbit**

"It is confirmed, your Excellency," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven as it knelt before the aged figure resting in the seat. "The Supreme Commander has made contact with the Colonial forces operating in this region."

"Have there been any updates from our forces in the Ceres region?" asked Cavil, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he looked over at Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"None, your Excellency," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly. "Every available scout has been deployed throughout the system, but we have not had any contact since our forces intercepted and destroyed the last courier four days ago; environmental conditions in the system are hampering efforts…"

"I'm sure I don't need to explain how displeased I am that you have not hunted down and destroyed them by now," interjected Cavil, his weathered brow scowling deeply as he spoke. "I want that ship, not excuses."

"Yes, your Excellency," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven, bowing slightly as it spoke. "For the time being, however, they _are_ at least cut-off and contained; should not our primary concern be the apparent defection of the Supreme Commander? The information he has…"

"Could not possibly be used effectively by the humans in the time remaining to them," interjected Cavil, pausing to take in a labored breath as a slight smirk creased his lips. "And with the array nearly complete these creatures have now outlived their usefulness; assemble our available forces and prepare to attack."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center  
><strong>**Alert Status – Condition One  
><strong>**Helios System**

"Jump complete, Colonel," called Lieutenant Thorpe.

"What's our position, Lieutenant?" asked Runel as his hawkish eyes reflexively focused in on the screens overhead.

"We're holding position three-hundred-k out from Anvil, sir," replied Thorpe. "DRADIS is clear, no contacts on rad systems."

"Going to be hard seeing what's happening deeper in the system," muttered Colonel McQueen as he glanced across the plot table to Runel. "Anvil's blocking our view of the Chig..."

Pausing, McQueen glanced momentarily over at the Supreme Commander standing by the entry hatch flanked by six armed guards.

"...of the Supreme Commander's home world," amended McQueen as his eyes slowly returned to the screen overhead. "Can I presume you have an idea for getting around that?"

"Sir, message from _Savitri_; Raptor is skids up and moving into position now," stated Petty Officer Templeton.

"Thank you, Petty Officer," said Runel as he looked back over at McQueen. "The dossier IFOR gave us said you've been in ground combat before, have fought in urban environments; ever used a mirror to peek around a corner, Colonel?"

"A few times," nodded McQueen.

"Same principle, bigger scale," sighed Runel as he motioned up to the Raptor icon on DRADIS. "Slip a Raptor with a full ELINT package out just over the horizon; gives us a peek of what's going on around the corner without having to stick our own big nose out there."

"That's still a lot of dead space showing up on your scope," noted McQueen, nodding slightly towards the screens overhead. "Could be the enemy has feelers of their own out there."

"True," sighed Runel as he too looked back up at the screen. "I guess we'll know they do if we come under attack in the next few minutes."

Letting out a long sigh, McQueen simply stood staring across at Runel.

Casting a sidewise glance back over at McQueen, Runel couldn't help but notice the attention he was receiving.

"Something on your mind, Colonel?" asked Runel as he watched the Raptor's progress on DRADIS.

"Quite a few things, actually," replied McQueen flatly.

Pausing, Runel gave a quick glance to the personnel around CIC then motioned for McQueen to follow as he began making his way over towards a somewhat more secluded section of the space.

"Our Raptor will be slipping over the horizon in about six minutes," sighed Runel as he glanced back over at the DRADIS screens. "As a professional courtesy, I'll give you five; speak your mind."

"Then let me start by saying this," began McQueen, his subdued voice taking on a cool edge as he cast a glance back over at the Supreme Commander. "Up until now, I've pretty much paid only the perfunctory amount of lip service needed whenever you've stretched the bounds of your mission out here."

"Just so we're clear, how exactly have I stretched those bounds?"

"Our mission was supposed to be reconnaissance, gathering hard intel on enemy movements and disposition."

"Which we've done," interjected Runel with a slight nod.

"But the point of gathering that information was so we could relay it back to IFOR Command and let _them_ decide what to do next," shot back McQueen, taking a half step closer to Runel. "Now I have gone along so far and backed your plays, I even let you use _my_ people for the mission down to Anvil…"

"Get to your point, Colonel," snapped Runel, a clear tenor of impatience creeping into his voice.

"In my opinion, bringing your ships here not only exceeds the parameters of this mission, it is reckless."

"Any more reckless than you taunting the Supreme Commander with the images your team took on Anvil?" countered Runel, a smug smirk flashing across his face as the words left his mouth.

"My point still stands," replied McQueen. "Provoking a single Chig to face up against some cruel facts is one thing, actively courting mission creep is quite another. The way you and Colonel Webber have been progressively rewriting your orders, it smacks of chasing after some hidden agenda, and frankly, I think it's damned well time you let me know what it is."

Holding McQueen's unflinching gaze, Runel took a deep breath.

"What's more important to you, Colonel?" began Runel evenly. "Confirming your suspicions, or seizing onto the fact that right here, right now, we have a damned good chance of really altering the balance of this conflict?"

"That's not an answer," countered McQueen flatly. "You could have simply let the Supreme Commander go back in his own ship to tell the Chigs what we learned, the damage done would have been the same; what I want to know is what he told you down in that conference room. It must have been pretty damned compelling for you to order up a scouting mission, one _without_ any accompanying IFOR personnel. What are you really looking for?"

Again pausing to digest the myriad of thoughts and uncertainties bounding through his mind, Runel glanced over towards the Supreme Commander.

"Let me ask you a question, Colonel," began Runel as he looked back over to McQueen. "When you were chosen for this mission, were you also told to keep an eye on us, maybe gather a little intel?"

Now it was McQueen who paused, the hesitation and subtle change in his expression indicators Runel interpreted as tacit admission.

"To answer your question, yes, he _did_ tell us something," began Runel, a long sigh escaping him, his expression growing almost apologetic. "And as one soldier to another, a courtesy I extend because we could still very well have out asses shout out from beneath us in the next few minutes, I wish I could just tell you what it was, but the fact that someone in your chain of command _did_ order you to spy on us makes me wonder."

"Wonder what, whether you can trust me?"

"Perhaps," answered Runel flatly. "But more importantly, it makes me wonder _why_ they gave you that order; all too often, paranoia walks hand-in-hand with deception."

"Isn't it possible such an order is simply about prudence, Colonel Runel?" countered McQueen, his own mounting impatience creeping into his tone. "All over the planet, there are people who believe you are who you say you are, and there are people who don't; simply being in a position of authority doesn't trump that aspect of human nature."

"It might be that simple," conceded Runel. "But I also have to consider the possibility there's something else going on here, that for all the bits and pieces we've gathered together, there's a bigger picture we're still missing, and that someone has gone to great lengths to keep it that way."

* * *

><p>As he stood holding Runel's gaze, McQueen couldn't help but admit, if only internally, that there might be a rather sizeable nugget of truth in what his Colonial counterpart was saying.<p>

McQueen had not been particularly comfortable when Air Chief Marshal Howe and General Fournier had ordered him to 'keep an eye' on the Colonials; save for their apparent withholding of whatever information the Supreme Commander had given them, they really had not done anything he would come close to describing as duplicitous.

By contrast, McQueen was only all to acutely aware of the veritable mountain of dirty little secrets which had come to light over the course of the war, most especially those surrounding Aero-Tech.

Before the war had begun, the executive board of Aero-Tech had known the Chigs were out here, but had told no one in order to prevent the cancellation of their lucrative colonization programs.

And once it had erupted, they very quickly begun a campaign to bribe, cajole or outright strong-arm their way into possession of advanced enemy technology with little to no appreciable benefit to the grunts fighting and dying on the line. In fact, the only noticeable results of so many shady dealings were a massive inflation in Aero-Tech's global military market share and stock prices which had been spiking through the roof until the Colonials arrived.

But perhaps most egregious of all were the vast and shadowy tentacles the corporation seemed to have entwined around a long list of military and government officials from Secretary General Hayden on down, a decidedly unwholesome level of political influence, either actual or perceived, which had stifled any attempt to truly bring Aero-Tech to account for their role in precipitating this war.

Was that it?

Had the Supreme Commander clued the Colonial officers in on something that now made them wary of trusting Earth?

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Four-Five-Eight<br>****Helios System**

"See, this just proves that having 'experience' can be a double-edge sword," muttered Ensign Kibby as he adjusted several controls on the rear panel. "You make a single drop on an alien moon and suddenly you're the resident expert on the gods-damned thing, your ass hanging in the wind again before you've even have a chance to shower."

"Just keep you're fraking eyes out for contacts," muttered Ensign Placencia as she watched the diffuse clouds in Anvil's upper atmosphere streak by below. "I don't want that crappy ball of mud and methane below to be the last thing I see in this life."

With her hands firmly gripped around the controls of the Raptor, Placencia's eyes continued to dart about, from the control panel, to the view beyond her canopy, the rapid beating of her heart energizing her every sense as she watched for some sign that the enemy was closing in on her lone craft.

For better or worse, Placencia saw no such enemy craft, her eyes instead catching sight of the Chig home world rising into view from beyond the horizon of Anvil. Much like the moon below, the muted tones of the methane-dominated home world seemed almost sickly when compared to the stark blues and greens of her home colony of Picon.

But even as she watched the alien world continue to rise before her, Placencia's eyes soon settled in on something else hanging motionless within the void of space.

Bathed only in the faint light of the system's distant star, it was hard for Plancencia's mere human eyes to discern anything beyond a diffuse smudge against the backdrop of stars. Worse still, a quick glance at empty DRADIS only served to make her weary of what she was seeing; either a bug had been smeared across the canopy somehow, or the object was stealth.

"Kibby, get your butt up here," burst Placencia as she looked back out at the object, her eyes squinting as she attempted to at least eyeball whether the object was far away, close, or worse closing in.

As Kibby popped up beside her seat, Plancencia pointed out at the object.

"You see that?"

"Yeah, I see it," sighed Kibby, bobbing his head a bit as he too looked out at the diffuse object. "Whatever it is, it's not showing up on DRADIS, must be stealth."

"Thanks for the hot tip, genius," muttered Plancencia derisively, rolling her eyes a bit. "Don't you think now would be a good time to maybe get those guncams focused in, see it you can ID it before it shoots us down?"

As Kibby made his way back to the rear seat, Placencia continued to eye the lone object.

"Contact," snapped Kibby, his statement instantly prompting Plancencia to return her attention to the DRADIS screen. "Correction, _multiple_ contacts, bearing zero-six-five carom zero-two-niner, extreme range."

"Now that looks like the Chig fleet," muttered Placencia as she watched the cluster of contacts eek closer on the screen. "But whatever that big blob out there is, we're still not picking it up."

"Rad-systems are starting to get a faint reading, either they're pretty far out, or that is one helluva big Sewell signature," stated Kibby.

"What about the cams, you got anything yet?"

"I think so, piping my feed to you now."

Her eyes practically glued to the center screen, Placencia watched as the powerful optical cameras mounted in the surveillance pod tucked under her Raptor's winglet began zooming in on the object.

At first, there wasn't much more to see than her own eyes had been able to detect, a diffuse outline, the minor glint of faint sunlight reflecting off dark surfaces.

But as the surveillance pod's onboard imaging software began to process the feeds coming in from the cameras, Placencia's heart began to quicken as the object was brought into far more stark relief.

"Frak, Placencia, you see…"

"I see it," cut-in Placencia curtly.

To say the image was haunting was almost an understatement.

Although pictures of the new Silicate baseships had been included in briefings ever since the first recon team had brought back images, there was an acute difference between seeing a picture projected on a screen and seeing one on your own damned gun cameras; a picture on screen couldn't kill you, but a ship close enough to appear on cameras might.

Worse still, it stood to reason that where there was a stealth baseship, you could damned well bet there were stealth fighters lurking nearby.

Although it was likely a fruitless effort, Placencia nevertheless glanced back down at DRADIS, a paltry attempt at best to allay that fear.

Returning her attention to the guncam footage, the image now focused and crisp enough that Placencia could practically see the rivets holding the monstrosity together, the frightful image of enemy stealth fighters likewise came into view.

Spread out like a diffuse cloud around the baseship, tens of dozens of them were simply hovering around it like a deadly veil.

"Well that doesn't look very encouraging," sighed Placencia. "Do we still have contact with the relay drone we dropped?"

"Loud and clear."

"Then start the upload to _Enceladus_."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Colonel?"

At the sound of Lieutenant Thorpe's voice cutting out across CIC, Runel looked away from his brooding staring match with McQueen.

"What is it, Lieutenant?" asked Runel as he began making his way back over towards the center plot table.

"Raptor is beginning to send us a feed, sir."

As his eyes focused in on the screens overhead, Runel watched as one of them shifted to the feed coming from the Raptor.

As the gun camera images of the Silicate baseship appeared overhead, two thoughts flashed through Runel's mind; where were the other three they'd seen before, and what the hell were they doing?

Reaching out with his hand as he glimpsed McQueen settling back into place opposite of him at the plot table, Runel lifted a handset to his ear.

"Get me a scrambled channel to our Raptor."

* * *

><p><strong>Raptor Four-Five-Eight<strong>

As she slowly pulled back on her throttles, settling the Raptor into little more than a coasting orbit that kept what they were seeing in view without actually drawing them closer, Placencia's ears perked up a bit as the gentle crackle of a wireless feed began to filter in through the speakers in her helmet.

"_Raptor Four-Five-Eight, _Enceladus_-Actual_."

"Go ahead, Actual," replied Placencia as she passed her eyes over her instruments and verified that her throttle-down hadn't slipped her Raptor into a decaying orbit.

"_We're getting your feed, but your eyes are on the scene; give me the sit-rep_."

"Actual, be advised, we have positive DRADIS contact on the Chig fleet, looks like they're holding in mass formation near the home world. Have only intermittent contact on rad-systems with another object, but firm visual contact, from configuration looks like one of the Silicate baseships with at least a wing of supporting fighters."

"_Copy, we're seeing that here too_."

As she watched the screen and waited for Colonel Runel to say, well, _anything_, the magnified image of the Silicate baseship suddenly flared with a few quick bursts of light.

"What the frak was that?" burst Kibby. "Whoa, that diffuse Sewell signature just jumped in intensity."

"Kibby, pull the magnification back a bit," muttered Placencia, her brow furrowing a bit in a scowl as she looked out towards the actual object beyond her canopy

Looking back down at the center screen as the camera image began to pull back from the Silicate baseship, Placencia felt her stomach knot considerably…as four more Silicate baseships came into view.

"_Enceladus_-Actual, Raptor Four-Five-Eight; looks like we have a situation brewing out here."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus**_

Scowling at the image of the Silicate baseships overhead with little more than acid contempt, Runel watched with mounting anger as the screen filled with Silicate raiders, scores of them, the craft spreading out like vicious pack hounds spoiling to be let off the leash.

In laymen's terms, it was a classic combat spread, the Raiders moving into position out in front of the capital ships, a marshalling of forces in preparation for an attack…one that was clearly aimed directly at the mass of Chig vessels being picked up by DRADIS.

Dropping the handset down onto the table top, Runel turned hard on his heels and practically vaulted over towards the Supreme Commander, the imposing figure lifting the earpiece in his hand up beside his helmet as Runel approached.

"I presume I don't have to explain what that formation means, what the Silicates are preparing to do out there," snapped Runel as he pointed contemptuously back over at the image on the screen.

"No, you do not," replied the Supreme Commander soberly.

"Then at least tell me your forces will fight back, tell me they won't just _sit_ there and let themselves be wiped out by that strike!"

Bowing its helmeted head slightly, the Supreme Commander seemed to look right back into Runel's burning, indicting gaze.

"They don't know the devices are fake," replied the Supreme Commander dejectedly. "As long as they think the crèche moon is in danger, they will not fight back."

"This is insane," burst Runel angrily. "Once the Silicates wipe out your fleet, your planet is the next target they will hit; your entire civilization is about to wiped out and you're telling me they're going to do _nothing_ to stop it?"

Maddeningly, the Supreme Commander said nothing in reply.

"You've got to be fraking kidding me," sputtered Runel, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he made his way back over to the plot table

With his mind churning with stunned astonishment that the Chig fleet was about to simply surrender itself to oblivion, Runel leaned in over the plot table as his eyes focused back in on the impending carnage gathering on the screens overhead.

The Silicate baseships and Raiders gathering on one screen…

The icons denoting the Chig fleet floating helplessly, worthlessly, on the other…

With the tension mounting within every muscle in his body, Runel was all too acutely aware that every set of expectant eyes around CIC was focused squarely on him.

He was even more acutely aware of Colonel McQueen's piercing gaze.

"I'd suggest advising IFOR command, but somehow I don't think you'll listen," muttered McQueen as he slowly looked back up at the screens.

"Jumping back for a confab with the brass isn't going to make a damned bit of difference," snorted Runel, his tone little more than disgusted. "By the time they make a decision this will all be over; the Chig fleet will be debris, their home world radioactive slag."

"You seem pretty certain of that," muttered McQueen.

"From experience," replied Runel soberly, watching as the Silicate Raiders continued to fan out into formation.

"Sir, _Savitri_ is hailing us," called Petty Officer Templeton.

Reaching out, Runel snatched up the handset from the side of the plot table.

"_Enceladus_-Actual."

"_Tell me you have one of those famous seat-of-your-pants ideas over there_," began Colonel Webber.

"I'd love to say I do, but no matter how you slice it this is a bad situation," replied Runel, a long breath escaping him as he glanced over to the Supreme Commander. "Our guest says his people won't fight back unless they know the canisters are fake and we can't transmit that info without giving ourselves away. Even if we do, there's no guarantee they'll understand what we're telling them, much less believe it."

"_Gods-dammit, I know you're not blind over there, you know what's about to happen_," snapped Webber. "_That strike force hits the Chig fleet, this will all be over in minutes; just send the transmission_."

"I pop the cork on our position, part of that strike force is going to come right for us and you know it," countered Runel as he glanced over at the DRADIS, at the fleet of Chig ships about to annihilated. "They jump in on us, we'll be pinned in without room to maneuver; that's a bad tactical position, especially with just two ships to combat…"

Pausing, Runel felt a tingle roll across his skin as he looked at the Silicate baseships, then over at the Chig fleet.

Tactical position…what if…

"Wait one," snapped Runel, dropping the handset down onto the plot table as he spun on his heels and made an immediate beeline towards Lieutenant Thorpe.

"Lieutenant, can you get a general fix on the Sewell signatures detected by the Raptor?" asked Runel as he stepped up beside Thorpe and pointed at the image of the baseships on the Lieutenant's console screen.

"Not enough for a target fix, sir, especially not at this distance," replied Thorpe, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't need a target fix," replied Runel as he snatched up a blank acetate sheet and a grease pencil. "Just a general location fix."

Pausing to watch Runel as the Colonel quickly scribbled out a crude drawing on the acetate, it suddenly dawned on Thorpe what it was Runel was planning; he wasn't particularly heartened by it.

"Yes, sir, I should be able to get a general fix," answered Thorpe warily as he looked down at the picture Runel had drawn. "Where did you want me to make the plot?"

Smirking slightly, Runel took the grease pencil and made a simple 'x' on the acetate.

"Right there," he said, passing the acetate off to Thorpe.

"Aye, sir," replied Thorpe as he popped up from his station and quickly made his way over to the FTL plot table.

Turning back around, Runel looked over to McQueen, the Colonel's clearly questioning eyes meeting his for a moment, before in turn looking back over to the Supreme Commander.

Dropping the grease pencil down onto Thorpe's station console, Runel returned his attention to the screens above plot table as he briskly made his way back over.

Settling back in at his place, Runel motioned the Supreme Commander closer.

Hesitant, the Supreme Commander nevertheless complied, the imposing figure stepping up beside Runel at the plot table.

Reaching out, Runel picked up the handset resting on the surface of the plot table and handed it to the Supreme Commander.

"When I say, press this button on the side and tell your people about the canisters on Anvil," said Runel evenly as the Supreme Commander took hold of the handset. "If you don't, my Marines will shoot you where you stand."

* * *

><p>Watching silently from across the plot table, Colonel McQueen was all too cognizant of just how significant that moment was; the Silicates new-found military might was about to be unleashed for the first time; the Chig fleet, in complete contrast to the formidable enemy they'd been for the last two years, were simply going to surrender to fate and allow themselves to be wiped out.<p>

The convergence of these two factors pointed to just one end; they were about to stand witness to a genocide.

And right there, at the epicenter of it all, was an image of almost comical absurdity; a two meter tall armor-encased alien being, a member of the race who had spent the last two years killing humans by the score and instilling men, women and children the world over with horrific nightmares of death and destruction, in all its ferociousness standing with a translator earpiece held in one hand and a Colonial phone in the other.

Nevertheless, something else about the situation was all too clear; Runel was up to something, and McQueen had an unsettling inkling that he knew what that 'something' was.

"Templeton," snapped Runel as he returned his gaze to the screen overhead. "Advise _Savitri_ they are to hold this position; this goes sour, at least one of us needs to get word back to IFOR. Once they acknowledge that order, prepare to broadcast on all known Chig frequencies."

"Aye, Colonel," replied Templeton simply as he promptly relayed the order to _Savitri_ then set about adjusting several controls at his station.

"Where's my jump solution, Lieutenant Thorpe?"

"Solution input, Colonel; LOS jump is set; drives spooling, thirty second till board is green."

With his heart quickening within his chest, McQueen's eyes flashed back to the swarms of Silicate ships on the screen overhead and suddenly felt like a man trapped in the passenger seat of a car careening across black ice towards a light pole.

Taking in a deep breath, Runel reached down, his hand fumbling for the briefest of moments before he suddenly remembered he'd handed off his handset to the Supreme Commander.

With a slight huff, he quickly stepped around to the opposite side of the plot table next to McQueen, the Earth military officer watching him intently as Runel snatched up the other handset, toggled the switch for the One-MC, and lifted the receiver.

"This is the Colonel; all decks, all stations, standby for combat jump; all batteries prepare for _visual_ target acquisition to broadside port, I say again, broadside _port_, main odd batteries one-to-one HE-to-AP, main even batteries prep for Raider suppression."

As the air around CIC became charged with the collective anticipation and angst of a crew hurriendly preparing itself for battle, Runel set the handset back into place and looked over into McQueen's clearly disapproving gaze.

"You want to abandon ship?" muttered Runel.

"I'm supposed to be 'keeping an eye' on you, remember?" countered McQueen, shaking his head slightly. "Do you really think you can pull this off, engage a task force that large with just _one_ ship?"

"Just stretching the bounds of my mission," smirked Runel as he quickly began making his way back around to his own side of the plot table. "Besides, this works the way I'm hoping, we might just throw the enemy for a loop."

"Somehow I doubt they'll be impressed by the spectacle of one lone warship suicidally engaging a numerically superior hostile force," muttered McQueen as he watched Runel move back around the table. "I sincerely hope whatever you've got in mind is a little more sophisticated than charging in with guns blazing."

"It is…somewhat," sighed Runel as he came to rest beside and looked up into the helmeted face of the Supreme Commander.

Taking a deep breath, Runel then returned his attention to the screens overhead as the massed formations of Silicate Raiders began to move forward.

"We're going to see if we can open up a second front."

* * *

><p><strong>Silicate Command Baseship<br>****Near the Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System**

"Raider forces moving towards enemy targets now, your Excellency," stated Cain Six-Zero-Seven, the data feed it was receiving from the interface terminal scrolling through its consciousness.

Stepping slowly up beside Cain Six-Zero-Seven, the aged Cavil still managed a self-satisfied smirk as he looked across at the lone screen in the command core, the massed swarms of Raiders spreading out, stalking in towards the Chig warships and fighters like ravenous predators who'd caught the scent.

"Been a long time since I witnessed a moment like this," sighed Cavil, his voice gravely with age, yet nevertheless smug. "I'd almost forgotten how satisfying it was when things go _right_ for a change."

As he stood there, watching and waiting, deeply savoring the moment, all Cavil could think about was how much more gratifying it would be when Earth's time came.

With every twisted impulse in his poisoned heart, he longed for that final victory, the moment when he would finally step his proverbial boot down hard upon the neck of humanity once and for all; the righteous fulfillment of his vengeful will, delayed for millennia but now once again all but inevitable, the final victory over the humans once more within his withered grasp.

And oh, how much easier would it be this time, confined as they were to just one lone world, one solitary planet to tear asunder; they'd have nowhere to run this time.

So it was that as his ego marinated within the heady brew of thoughts regarding the inevitable extinction of the hated pestilence known as humanity, Cavil almost missed the miniscule flash of light that flared into being in front of his advancing strike force.

"There is a new contact," stated Burke MR Eight-Zero-Nine as new sets of data began scrolling through its consciousness.

Prodded by the statement, Cavil took a few trembling steps forward, the withered flesh of his brow furrowing in a scowl as he tried to discern the blurry image which had appeared.

"Identify that," he snapped, a searing cough seizing him as the words scoured their way from his throat.

"Contact identified; Colonial, _Erinyes_ Class Battlecruiser, _Enceladus_," replied Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three.

A moment later, the tell-tale contrails of rounds erupted from the lone Colonial ship, heavy flak suppression loads quickly blossoming moments later amid the forward edge of the vast formations of Raiders.

"Shall we strike, your Excellency?" prodded Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

Watching as the _Enceladus_ continued to hurl a relatively miniscule smattering of flak loads into the midst of his vast formations of Raiders, Cavil considered the proposal; to be sure, his Raider forces held such an overwhelming superiority in numbers that if he ordered them in en masse they would without question overpower the lone battlecruiser in a matter of minutes, never mind the fact that he also had five baseships at his disposal.

Mathematically speaking, the lone Colonial vessel's attack was tantamount to suicide.

Nevertheless, Cavil had other considerations to take into account; losses were still losses, and with the real victory still ahead to be won he could not abide taking any risks which might thwart his relentless ambition to wipe humanity out proper. No, he needed to keep as many of his formidable yet still finite forces as possible intact for the more important battle ahead.

"No," wheezed Cavil, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl as the lone Colonial interloper began to heave ordnance in the direction of his baseships; close but still wide of their mark. "Pull our forces back, defensive posture; order our vassals to destroy the ship; once they're done killing each other, we'll swoop in and wipe out whatever remains."

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Near the Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System**

"Well, we're in it deep now," muttered Runel as he watched the swarms of Raiders closing in on DRADIS.

Although the stealth technology employed by the Silicate ships prevented DRADIS from getting firm locks on individual ships, massed as they were the radiation detection systems would have to have been turned off for so large a Sewell fuel signature not to pop up on the screen.

The position fix wasn't enough for his gun battery crews to use DRADIS targeting, nor was it enough for them to be able to engage the enemy with missiles, but with just enough signatures blinking into and out of contact on the screens overhead, they _were_ able to get a sense of just how close the mass of enemy ships was coming to his lone battlecruiser.

Frankly, it was becoming too close for even his bravado.

"Main batteries continue firing," began Runel, the diffuse 'cloud' of intermittent contacts on the screen overhead making it seem as though his ship were slugging it out with a phantom. "Secondary batteries commence fire, local control, optical tracking on any targets of opportunity, let's see if we can't thin the herd."

"Sir, change in aspect readings," called Lieutenant Thorpe. "It looks like the Silicate forces are pulling back."

His eyes narrowing a bit, Runel watched as the intermittent contacts did indeed appear to be turning away from _Enceladus_.

Militarily speaking, it made no sense; the Silicate advantage in numbers was such that even if they were able get a firm DRADIS track on _every_ ship, they could never have thrown up enough steel to fend them off.

With a slow tingle crawling up his spine, Runel's gaze drifted over towards the firm contacts on DRADIS that denoted the Chig fleet.

"Colonel, we have movement," burst Lieutenant Thorpe as the contacts on the screen surged forward. "Chig fleet is accelerating, now inbound, CBDR at bearing zero-nine-two carom zero-eight-five; they're coming right at us, sir!"

Almost in spite of himself, in spite of the situation itself, Runel actually grinned.

"That's right, come on in," muttered Runel as he watched the entire Chig fleet begin to bear down on his vessel. "Thorpe, advise all starboard batteries; weapons _hold_."

"Sir?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant; _weapons hold_," snapped Runel, his eyes never leaving the screen overhead.

"Aye, sir," replied Thorpe tentatively as he snatched up the handset at his console and relayed the order.

"Those ships are going to be in position to fire pretty damned quick," stated McQueen as he watched the Chig fleet closing in on the screens overhead.

"That's the point," replied Runel evenly, his eyes never leaving the screen. "I want them in real close."

Watching Runel for a moment, McQueen's eyes narrowed a bit, his mind clearly working on puzzling out what it was Runel was up to.

"Inbound fleet thirty seconds from engagement range, sir," called Thorpe as he set his handset back into place. "Fighters are spreading out, sir, looks like they're clearing lines of fire for the capital ships."

With a deep breath as his only response, Runel leaned in just a bit more towards the screen, his eyes taking on an almost predatory edge as he watched the Chigs continue to close in.

"Fifteen seconds, sir!" called Thorpe, the clear tension evident in his tone as he reflexively gripped onto his console.

Snapping his head around, Runel looked directly at the Supreme Commander.

"Now!" he barked flatly. "Tell them!"

With the barest hint of a nod, the Supreme Commander pressed down on the transmit button of the handset.

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Near the Blessed Homeworld**

With his respiratory membranes shuddering with acute agitation, the Sub-Supreme Commander watched as his forces spread out and prepared to attack the lone human vessel.

The attack order from the Silicates was not one he had any particularly desire to carry out; were it not for the threat against the crèche moon, he'd just as soon unleash his forces against the Silicates themselves for all the suffering they had inflicted upon his people.

Moreover, the Sub-Supreme Commander was no fool; the Silicates had clearly been preparing to wipe out his fleet before the human ship appeared. Now, it was equally obvious they were merely ordering his forces into the attack for the express purpose of having the human vessel cull a great number of his ships in order for the Silicate assault to be that much easier.

He'd just as soon prefer that the Supreme Commander had not embarked on his foolish mission, at least, that is how the Sub-Supreme Commander viewed it, to contact the humans; the idea of allying with such barbarians was only marginally better than with the Silicates if only because the humans did not hold the entire future of their species hostage.

Nevertheless, with no word as to whether or not the Supreme Commander was even still alive, much less whether he had actually managed to make contact with the humans, the decidedly unpalatable responsibility to order his people's military forces into this last forlorn attack fell to him.

Bowing his head slightly, he drew in a long, almost dejected breath.

"We are entering nominal engagement range, Sub-Supreme Commander."

"Very well; order attack wings to…"

Cut-off mid-sentence by a sudden squeal of static erupting over the communications channels, the Sub-Supreme Commander recoiled a bit as the piercing screech echoed for a moment off the bulkheads before resolving into a recognizable voice.

"_This is your Supreme Commander; the Silicate threat against our crèche moon is a deception_."

Listening in disbelief, the Sub-Supreme Commander glanced over to a data readout which clearly indicated the transmission was coming from the human vessel.

Yet even before he had a chance to fully consider or question whether the transmission itself was a deception, he heard the voice of the Supreme Commander utter words which instantly excised all other thoughts from his mind save vengeance.

"_For our world, for our people; strike!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Main Battery Two**

Perched within his battery's command cupola, Gun Captain Gunner's Mate Saul Kowalski looked out past the two poised but unnervingly silent barrels of his mount towards the mass of alien ships rapidly bearing down on _Enceladus_, his breath held in absolute baited anticipation.

Although his battery was more than ready to begin hurling ordnance directly into the face of the advancing alien fleet, the orders from CIC had been clear; all starboard batteries were to hold fire.

With little between him and the frozen oblivion of deep space but a relatively thin laminated layers of plexiglass, Kowalski was not heartened by that order as he watched the swarms of alien ships continue to churn up the distance, feeling nothing so much as though they were flying directly towards his own nose.

As his hands began reflexively gripping tighter to the console in front of him, every cell in his body screaming out that at any moment he could expect little more than for his entire world to become a chaotic maelstrom of destruction and enemy weapon impacts, Kowalski glanced away only for a moment as the battery's DRADIS link signaled that the alien ships had crossed over the demarcation line that placed _Enceladus_ squarely within their engagement range.

But instead of erupting in a withering hail of weapons fire, the breathless void of space instead yielded a sight which left Kowalski stunned beyond words.

With his heart leaping up into his throat, Kowalski and the rest of his gun crew watched in awe as the alien fighters and bomber craft raced by outside the cupola canopy, for all the worlds paying the _Enceladus_ no more attention than if she'd merely been an asteroid in their path.

Moments later, the formations of alien capital ships following hard on the heels of their vanguard sprinted by as well, some of them actually rotating their tall, sail-like hulls around in order to fly past _Enceladus_ without actually altering course, passing close enough that Kowalski could see the individual seals between hull plating.

With the trackless depths of space beyond the plexiglass now empty save for a sea of stars, Kowalski let out a breath and became aware of how badly he needed to pee.

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Near the Blessed Homeworld**

Before his people had come into contact with the humans, they'd had no concept of religion, no notions about a god, gods or other mysterious phantasmal supreme beings. Life had no 'grand design', there was no such thing as 'destiny'; life was merely an incidental occurrence, the result of very specific chemical reactions occurring in a precise sequence purely by random chance.

But while they had no notions regarding ethereal absolute arbiters of right and wrong in their culture, the Sub-Supreme Commander's people had nevertheless developed strict codes and concepts about justice.

And just as it was in human society, for every transgression there was an atonement that must be paid.

Thus, for all the crimes committed by the Silicates, for the untold lives lost at their bidding, for the subjugation and outright enslavement of his people, to the Sub-Supreme Commander it was clear that there was but one suitable punishment.

So it was that in that moment, the Sub-Supreme Commander's entire fleet became an instrument of righteous vengeance, the howling cry of the legion under his command resonating within the very bulkheads and stanchions of the vessels they piloted at the order they'd all received to strike, each one becoming the visceral personification of wrath itself unleashed.

With unrepentant rage, they charged headlong into the vast formations of retreating Silicates fighters; it did not matter that their fighters were outnumbered, it did not matter that their capital ships were outclassed, all that mattered was that the time had finally come for them to exact their just reprisal.

Thus it was with nothing short of supreme satisfaction that the Sub-Supreme Commander issued just one order as his forces sliced into their erstwhile oppressors like scythe.

"All units; push through to the command ships, leave nothing in our wake!"

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

With no small sense of relief, Colonel Thadius Runel released the breath he'd been holding, the act itself a silent prayer of thanks that his act of almost insanely speculative audacity had apparently paid off.

"Thorpe, relay to all batteries, port side, check fire; we don't need to fell any friendlies," snapped Runel as he watched the Chig ships pour across the screen past his lone warship, slamming headlong into the retreating ranks of the Silicates.

To say Runel's admittedly half-baked gambit had been a 'plan' was generous beyond words; in short, he'd tossed the _Enceladus_ into the mix as little more than provocative bait, a weighted guess at best of what the outcome would be once the Supreme Commander sent his transmission.

To be sure, both fleets could just as easily have swarmed in over his lone ship and pounded it into oblivion.

Nevertheless, as he watched with nothing short of thankful satisfaction, Runel was instead greeted by the sight of the entire Chig fleet hurtling itself en masse directly into the withdrawing Silicate formations, a narrow concentrated thrust at the center meant to penetrate through to the waiting baseships.

In many ways, the situation was actually better than he could have hoped; since the Silicates had actually been in the process of pulling their forces back from the _Enceladus_ they'd literally been caught with their proverbial asses hanging wide open as the Chigs pressed into a vicious attack.

"Son-of-a-bitch," muttered McQueen, no small amount of surprise in his tone.

"Sir, the Chig fleet is fully engaged," called Lieutenant Thorpe as Runel looked over at the Supreme Commander, the imposing Chig giving him the slightest of nods before returning its attention to the icons representing his people's fleet.

"The Silicates may have been caught off-guard, but it's not going to take them long to rally," noted McQueen as he motioned up at the screens overhead. "And they still have a considerable numerical advantage."

"Which means we still have work to do," muttered Runel as looked back to the screens and watched the mass of Chig ships continue to push relentlessly through the center of Silicate line. "Helm, all ahead flank, come to course three-five-zero carom zero-one-two, push us out onto the flank of the Silicate line."

"Aye, sir; engines all ahead flank," called the Helmsman. "Coming around to three-five-zero carom zero-one-two."

As Runel felt the sturdy deck beneath his feet heel somewhat at the sudden turn and kick of acceleration, he watched as the virtual battlefield on the screens overhead shifted.

With the Chigs ferociously slugging it out at point-blank range at the center of the Silicate line, the enemy's attention seemed to be wholly focused on wiping out the alien formation that was now vengefully cutting into their forces.

Nevertheless, McQueen was also correct.

Although the initial assault had clearly caught the Silicates completely off-guard, staggering as the Chig blow was, it was by no measure a knockout; already there were indications the Silicates were beginning to rally against the Chig fleet's piercing thrust, the diffuse mass representing the Silicate forces on the DRADIS display slowly beginning to envelop the firm Chig contacts like cloud.

Looking over to the Supreme Commander, Runel held out his hand, the Supreme Commander dutifully handing the handset back to Runel as he stoically watched his forces continue their assault on the screen.

Handset now in hand, Runel reached down and toggled the switch for battery plot.

"This is Actual, all batteries, action to port, optical tracking, acquire and take under fire nearest Silicate baseships, straight AP ordnance; hit them hard and fast!"

Dropping the handset down onto the table, Runel returned his attention to the screens overhead as the _Enceladus_ completed her turn.

With Chigs and Silicates hammering away at each other with all the grace and ferocity of a drunken bar brawl at the center, their forces were all but impossible to distinguish effectively on DRADIS. As such, Runel could only see one truly effective way to support their newfound allies in their attack; by pushing out onto the enemy's flank, the _Enceladus_' main batteries would be able to take Silicate baseships themselves under fire.

Although the limits of optical target acquisition and tracking meant his ship could only viably engage the two right-most baseships of the Silicate line, it might just be enough to divide the Silicates' attention and blunt their ability to reinforce the besieged center of their line.

As per his order, the stout battlecruiser sailed wide onto the Silicate flank, thus clearing any potential fields of fire of any Chig units, the main batteries opening up with a hail of heavy armor piercing rounds that cut through the depths of space to slam into the Silicate baseship anchoring the enemy line.

"Damn," muttered Runel as he watched a series of initial damage assessments begin to scroll across one of the screens overhead. "If _Adroa_ and _Ikenga_ were here, they'd be able to push out…"

"New DRADIS contact!" snapped Lieutenant Thorpe as the dull thump of the main batteries firing continued to echo through the air in CIC.

His eyes instantly snapping over to the new icon on the display, Runel didn't need to wait for the IFF; in his gut, he already knew exactly what it was.

"It's the _Savitri_, sir!"

"Gods damn it, Brie, I told you to stay put," muttered Runel, smirking as he shook his head slightly. "I knew there was a reason I loved that woman."

* * *

><p><strong>Combatstar <strong>_**Savitri  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Jump complete!" snapped Captain Golan.

Reaching down, Colonel Webber snatched up her handset and toggled the switch for battery plot.

"This is Actual; all main batteries, action to starboard, local control, optical track, weapons tight, engage nearest enemy baseships only, AP ordnance; execute."

As she set the handset down onto the plot table, Webber let out a long breath as she eyed the screens overhead, very much cognizant that she'd thrown her ship and people right into a battle whose outcome was anything but certain.

Although Runel had ordered her to keep _Savitri_ loitering out behind Anvil, it didn't take any sort of military genius to figure out that bringing her ship into the fight made more tactical sense; divide the enemy's attention, divide their ability to fend off the attack.

Besides, if Webber had left her fiancé to win this fight through his own audacity alone, she knew going forward his ego would become nigh insufferable.

Opting to blunt not only her fiancé's potential bragging rights but the Silicate counterattack in the most effective way possible, Webber brought the _Savitri_ into the mix on the opposite flank from the _Enceladus_. With the Chigs hammering away at the center, _Enceladus_ laying down a withering fire on the Silicate left flank, the _Savitri_ now readied herself to unleash the same on the Silicate right.

In a matter of mere moments, the Silicates had gone from being the aggressors to being the focus of a three pronged attack.

As the sound of her ship's main batteries opening up began to reverberate through CIC, Webber let out a long breath.

"Okay, Thadius, what now?" she muttered as she watched _Enceladus_ continued to maneuver along the opposing flank.

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Near the Blessed Homeworld**

To the Sub-Supreme Commander, it looked as though space itself were burning.

All around his ship, fighters mixed with fighters, a harrowing exchange of fire erupting from all parties, weapon impacts tearing finite hulls asunder, exposing any within to the lethally traumatic extremes of explosive flames and the eternal cold of hard vacuum.

Sometimes it was a Silicate fighter that was ripped apart, blossoming into spectacular detonations which were quickly suffocated within the breathless void as hull fragments became aimless clouds of hurtling shrapnel.

Sometimes it was one of his own fighters, rapid weapon strikes sending a craft careening out of control until the inertial stresses became more than the compromised structural alloys could bear, plating shearing away as the craft entered a lethal spiral, blasted free as the craft erupted from within in a blinding fireball, the irreplaceable lives within forever lost to universe.

Even his own ship was not immune to the relentless carnage that was taking place.

Surging ahead through the very center of the Silicate lines towards the line of capital ships, his ship was at the very epicenter of the action, simultaneously the spearhead of his own people and the focus of the Silicates withering counter-attack.

From stations all over the ship, damage reports were flowing in like a raging river, numerous critically damaged systems teetering on the verge of collapse as Silicate ordnance repeatedly bit into the armored hide of his command like ravenous teeth.

Throughout the ship, his crew were suffering and dying by the score, those ravenous teeth ripping open hull breaches, the desperate flailing of arms and legs proving no match for the raw force of explosive decompression as his people were blown into breathless oblivion.

But for all the horror, all the suffering, all the terror and chaos of the moment, the Sub-Supreme Commander still felt himself burning to the very core of his being with an inexorable rage.

His eyes focused and fixed on the massive Silicate warship at the very center of the enemy line, the Sup-Supreme Commander willed himself forward across the trembling deck.

Reaching out with his hands as the entire ship rocked around him, the Sub-Supreme Commander clawed his way towards the helm, pushing aside the partially eviscerated body of his helmsman as took over the controls himself.

Looking back up at the imposing Silicate warship upon which he'd set his vengeful sights, the Sub-Supreme Commander let out a piercing, defiant cry that still managed to cut through the frightful din of his command ship being torn to pieces around him as he pushed the critically damaged engines to the limit.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Runel was all too aware that entering into an engagement with such a numerically superior hostile force meant that it wasn't a matter of _if_ his ship would be taken under fire, merely a matter of _when_.

When the Chig fleet had slammed headlong into the withdrawing vanguard of the Silicate forces, all of the enemy's attention had initially focused in on that initial breach, almost the entire force heeling about to meet that most immediate threat.

But as the Chigs continued to slog their way through a mounting level of resistance, the converging mass of Silicate Raiders were beginning to take their toll. In purely mathematical terms, the outcome was merely a matter of time; as long as the Silicates were willing to absorb the attrition, they'd eventually grind the Chig fleet down to nothing.

And while _Enceladus_ and _Savitri_ had begun to put rounds on target themselves, the battle damage assessments seemed to indicate that the Silicate baseships had rather thick hides; even the AP ordnance was having difficulty doing any appreciable damage.

So it was that as the Silicate baseships finally unleashed a volley of missiles towards _Enceladus_, Runel was more-or-less resigned to the inevitability that his ship was in no way going to come through this fight unscathed.

The one saving grace of the moment seemed to be that the Silicates had not managed or perhaps felt it necessary to try and adapt their stealth technology to their ordnance; missiles that could be seen could also be engaged by the defensive batteries.

"Enemy missiles inbound, count twenty-five…correction thirty," called Lieutenant Thorpe. "Negative for radiological warheads."

"Conventional ordnance," muttered Runel eyeing the inbound missiles as he snatched back up the handset on the plot table. "Battery Plot, verify track on inbound missiles."

"_Affirmative, solid track, shifting defensive fires now_."

His eyes locked on DRADIS, Runel watched as the icons representing the inbound missiles began to wink out one at a time as the defensive batteries began hurtling literally hundreds of large-caliber rounds into their paths.

Counter-fire was a tricky thing, even with full DRADIS track there were no guarantees of successful engagement, but with conventional warheads, he could at least take heart that any actual hits were likely ones his ship would be able to weather.

So it was that as a trio of missiles managed to make it through the curtain of lead and steel being thrown up by the defensive batteries, Runel instead allowed himself to focus on the seemingly more pressing issue of bringing this engagement to a successful conclusion.

What he had not expected was to be vaulted up onto the plot table, landing hard enough that his cheeks bone cracked the acrylic surface.

Shaking the stars from his vision, Runel pushed himself back off the plot table, casting a surprised glance around the CIC as his feet came once more into contact with the deck.

"Lieutenant, damage report; what the frak his us?" snapped Runel as he watched Thorpe claw his way back into his seat.

For a moment, Runel wondered if his ship had in fact been struck by some rogue asteroid, the impact seeming to be way out of proportion for the three conventional missiles which had impacted _Enceladus_.

As he waited for Thorpe to reply, Runel reached up and rubbed at the throbbing in his cheek, his eyes catching a glimpse of the spider web pf cracks in the plot table surface. As McQueen groped his way back into view on the opposite side of the plot table, from the look on his face no less shocked by the impact than Runel was, Runel himself returned his attention to the screens overhead.

"Where's my DRADIS, Lieutenant Thorpe?" snapped Runel as he saw that the screens overhead were blank.

"System wide crash, Colonel," replied Thorpe, wheezing a bit as he sat holding his side with one hand. "Rad-detection systems are down as well, some sort of weird white-out…"

"We're still in a fight, I need DRADIS back right fraking now," burst Runel.

"Reinitializing system now," nodded Thorpe.

Reaching down, Runel toggled the switch for damage control then snatched up his handset, dangling as it was by the cord from the side of the plot table.

"Damage control, give me a report," called Runel as he reflexively reached one hand out and help lift the surprisingly hefty Supreme Commander back to his feet.

"_Three impacts amidships, reports of hull breaches but no fires, DC teams moving in at this time_."

"Keep me advised," sighed Runel as he reached down and toggled the switch for battery plot. "Main battery status."

"_Gun captains reporting in now, sir, they're pretty shaken up; DC teams are working to realign ammo hoist systems in batteries one, seven and nine, but all other main batteries are coming back into action now._"

"Copy, DRADIS is down, keep them in local control, but I still want steel flying; I don't want those bastards thinking we're out of this fight."

"_Understood, sir_."

As he set the handset back on the plot table and returned his attention to the blank screens overhead.

"Okay, no radiation signatures, so they weren't nukes…" muttered Runel as the reassuring dull thump of the main batteries resuming fire began to reverberate once more through the air. "Just what the hell did they shoot at us?"

"Could be Sewell fuel warheads," groaned McQueen as he slowly rotated his right arm, grimacing a bit for the effort. "Same properties that make the ore an effective fuel source packs one helluva punch when detonated…eggheads have a lot of techno-babble to describe it, but suffice to say it has all the power of a tactical nuke without the nasty radiation."

"Well isn't that wonderful," muttered Runel sardonically as he watched the DRADIS system finally begin to reboot. "What the hell is taking so long with my eyes, Lieutenant?"

"Bringing the DRADIS back up now sir, but rad-systems are still blind," replied Thorpe. "Detectors are showing red, it's possible they've been burned out, Colonel."

"Which means we can't see the Silicates," muttered Runel, shaking his head in frustration as he watched the icons representing the Chig fleet begin to reappear. "Can we get a datalink from _Savitri_?"

"There's a lot of interference out there, sir, could take several minutes," answered Thorpe.

"Won't get done any quicker just talking about it; get on it," countered Runel. "In the meantime, see if we can get a visual feed from one of the main batteries."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p><strong>Fleet Command Vessel<br>****Near the Blessed Homeworld**

His crew were dead or dying.

His ship, torn and burning from innumerable weapons impacts, was nearing structural failure.

All around him were fires, shattered consoles, the bodies of his fallen comrades.

Still, the Sub-Supreme Commander would not be deterred.

With all trepidation excised from him by his burning desire for vengeance, the Sub-Supreme Commander coaxed the last bit of life from his dying vessel, bidding the ship as much by force of will as anything to accomplish one last task for the sake of his people.

* * *

><p><strong>Silicate Command Baseship<br>****Near the Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System**

"Confirmed impact of _Enceladus_, estimate moderate structural damage," stated Burke MR Eight-Zero-Nine.

"I don't give a damn about that annoying human gadfly!" barked Cavil, his aged body trembling with little-restrained rage as the ship around them shook from a weapons impact. "We can destroy them easily enough once the breach at our center has been contained; I want those traitorous creatures wiped out."

"Chig fleet estimated at twenty-percent remaining strength, your Excellency," began Cain Six-Zero-Seven. "Tactically speaking, the Colonial vessels now represent the primary threat."

"Oh really?" coughed Cavil angrily as he extended a withered hand towards the lone screen. "Then what the hell do you consider _that_?"

Following Cavil's hand, Cain Six-Zero-Seven looked up at the screen.

In the center, pushing through a maelstrom of weapons fire and a menacing encirclement of Raiders was a lone Chig capital ship. With vast sections of its hull ripped away, it was burning and clearly nearing destruction, yet nevertheless continued to push forward.

"The Chig vessel has sustained critical damage, weapon systems are non-functional," stated Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three dispassionately.

"The ship itself is a weapon!" growled Cavil, his voice quaking with rage. "I didn't survive a hundred and fifty millennia only to die because a bunch of _second-rate toasters_ can't recognize a threat when it's flying right at them; destroy that ship _now_!"

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

Watching as one of the screens overhead shifted to a live-video feed from one of the main batteries, Runel tried to get a sense of what was taking place.

Although it in some ways defied conventional thinking, DRADIS was a much more effective tool for coordinating battles because unlike a mono-directional image, like a video feed, it instead gave a ship's commander a veritable gods'-eye view of the battle space; all the ships within a three-hundred and sixty degree sphere could be seen at once, not just those that happened to be floating into view on a camera.

But with only the Chig fleet showing up on screen and the radiation detection systems apparently down and thus unable to give him a sense of where the Silicate fleet was, the gun cameras from his main batteries were Runel's only option for getting a feel for the fight his ship was still most decidedly in the midst of.

The one saving grace of the situation seemed to be that with _Enceladus_ out on the flank, the camera angle was more-or-less a wide panoramic shot along the line Silicate baseships.

So it was that as Runel began forcing his mind to come to terms with fighting his ship with what was still an incomplete picture of what was taking place around _Enceladus_, his eyes picked up on one detail that immediately seized hold of his attention.

"Thorpe, focus in on grid four-seven," snapped Runel.

As the camera image zoomed in, the starboard profile of a wrecked Chig capital ship was brought into stark relief. While the damage that had been wrought upon the craft was clearly significant, what had drawn Runel's attention was just how close the ship had managed to penetrate through the relentlessly maneuvering mass of Raiders.

"That is our fleet command ship," stated the Supreme Commander evenly as he too stood watching the video feed.

"Looks like they've taken heavy damage; they're not going to last much longer in there," muttered McQueen, his tone genuinely holding a measure of sympathy for the burning Chig command ship.

But as he continued to watch, something else seemed to dawn on the Colonel as he watched the Chig command ships continue to push relentlessly forward through a hail of fire and strafing Raiders, forwards towards the line of Silicate capital vessels.

"Oh, my gods," muttered Runel, his voice an almost breathless whisper as he continued to watch the Chig command ship surge forward.

"They're going to try and ram the Silicate ships," interjected McQueen, shaking his head in near disbelief as the violent spectacle continued to unfold on the screen.

As all eyes continued to watch, utterly transfixed by the sight, one of the Silicate baseships suddenly pulled out from its position along the line, a volley of missiles erupting from it as the baseship interposed itself in between the charging Chig warship and the Silicate baseship at the very center of the line.

Although the missile volley at first seemed destined to completely tear asunder the faltering Chig command ship, a smattering of surviving Chig fighters suddenly raced into view with weapons blazing. Defying the damage they themselves had sustained, the tiny craft expended themselves, either by ignoring the plethora of Raiders trailing them to fire at the inbound ordnance, or even by outright ramming into the missiles; a final and defiantly furious effort to ensure the Chig command vessel survived for a few more moments.

The net result of this orgy of self-sacrifice was that the way was now clear for the Chig command ship and the crew aboard it to give their own last full measure for their species.

Without the slightest hint of hesitation, the Chig command ship, trailing flames and debris, accosted from all sides by waves of relentless Raiders, slammed headlong into the baseship which had sailed into its path.

As the fiery conflagration of the Chig command ship's death enveloped a significant portion of the baseship, the visible sections of the hull almost instantly began to erupt in a cascading series of secondary detonations. With each new fireball, large sections of hull and debris were blasted free into the void, the entire hull visibly trembling, some sections even undulating like a wave as the baseship was seized by its own death throes.

Within moments, the Silicate baseship succumbed to the irrevocable damage wrought upon it, pyrotechnically evaporating in a fantastic explosion.

Much as the potency of the missiles had come as a surprise, so too did the magnitude of the explosion which marked the Silicate baseship's passing. Even in the vacuum of space, the detonation had managed to promulgate a considerable blast wave that swept over scores of Raiders, their comparatively fragile frames crushed outright, pulverized against the expanding wave front hurtling shards of splintered armor and other shattered debris into the void.

As the destructive crest slammed into the remaining baseships, the results were less spectacular but no less notable as they each visibly faltered. Sections of hull exposed directly to the blast wave were visibly buckled and crumpled back like a vehicle in a low-speed collision, a smattering of secondary eruptions erupting in several places though not engulfing them, the four remaining ships momentarily set adrift as they suffered an apparent loss of attitude control.

But what was more interesting is that the damage wrought upon the surviving baseships apparently compromised the stealth materials used in their hulls enough that they all instantly blinked into life on DRADIS.

"Colonel Runel, I may be out of place by saying this, but you'd be an outright fool to come this far and not seize this opportunity," stated McQueen flatly as he watched the four remaining baseships continue to flounder a bit.

"You're gods damned right I would be, that's why I'm taking it," nodded Runel, his eyes holding fast to the icons representing the now-detectable Silicate baseships as he snatched back up his handset. "Battery plot; DRADIS has firm track on enemy baseships; all main batteries, acquire targets; one-to-one HE to AP, rapid salvo fire; their shells are cracked, now's our chance to bust them open."

"_Aye, sir_."

Dropping the handset back away from his ear, Runel watched as the new wave of fire erupting from _Enceladus_ began raining down onto the nearest Silicate baseships.

* * *

><p><strong>Silicate Command Baseship<br>****Near the Fifth Planet of the Helios Star System**

"Get your gods-damned, motherfraking hands off of me," growled Cavil as Cain Six-Zero-Seven finished lifting the aged man back to his uncertain feet. "I fraking told your to destroy that ship."

"One baseship confirmed destroyed," stated Burke MR Eight-Zero-Nine dispassionately. "Ninety-seven Raiders confirmed lost."

Wheezing from the effort it took for his aged muscles to defy the trembling deck beneath his feet, Cavil looked up at the screen with little short of acid disdain, in spite of his previous caustic entreaty for Cain Six-Zero-Seven to leave him be, now firmly gripping onto the solidly-planted Silicate as his mind reeled with both rage and utter panic.

"I can't believe you actually managed to frak this up!" burst Cavil angrily, a harsh cough seizing him as he barely managed to look up into Cain Six-Zero-Seven's unreadable metal face. "You had one mother-fraking job to do, and you've completely fraked it up!"

"The Chig warship's suicidal maneuver was unexpected, you Excellency," replied Cain Six-Zero-Seven.

"They were losing you metal moron," barked Cavil, looking back over at the screen in time to see new salvos erupting from the two Colonial warships. "When biologicals are losing, they ram, I don't know why but they always _ram_, gods-_dammit_…"

A hard impact sent Cavil once again scrambling across the pitching deck.

"Our stealth plating has been compromised by the detonation," stated Feliciti OH Nine-One-Three. "We are visible to Colonial DRADIS."

"We are taking too many loses," coughed Cavil as he groped his way, this time conspicuously unaided, back to his feet. "Order all our forces to withdraw, immediately."

"If we remain in this engagement, our eventual victory is a mathematical certainty…" began Cain Six-Zero-Seven evenly, another series of Colonial salvos slamming into the ship cutting him off midsentence.

"I don't give a frak about 'mathematical certainties'," barked Cavil as he once again began the plainly arduous task of regaining his purchase. "I order you to withdraw, _now_!"

Pausing, Cain Six-Zero-Seven said nothing, merely watched the fumbling figure that was Cavil for a moment, its central processor as close to amused at the spectacle as its collection of digital algorithms could be.

To be certain, the aged creature's usefulness was drawing to a close, he was in the end still a biological creature as well, his eventual termination as much a certainty as the destruction of humanity, but for now a truncated cost-benefit analysis led Cain Six-Zero-Seven to conclude that it best served the eventual goals to continue to humor Cavil.

Accessing the streams of data flowing through its consciousness, Cain Six-Zero-Seven issued the withdrawal order.

* * *

><p><strong>Battlecruiser <strong>_**Enceladus  
><strong>_**Combat Information Center**

"Sir, change in readings," called Lieutenant Thorpe. "Picking up spatial…sir, they're spooling to jump."

Watching as he was with subdued satisfaction as the latest salvos from _Enceladus_ and _Savitri_ slammed home, at hearing that their injured quarry was in the midst of a jump prep, Runel was seized by a most peculiar rage.

"Gods dammit, they're getting away," he growled as he snatched up the handset and toggled the switch for battery plot.

But before he could lift the handset to his ear, the firm Silicate contacts on DRADIS blinking out of existence, the mass formations of Silicate Raiders and the baseships on the video feed vanished in a cascading series of flashes.

"All enemy contacts have jumped, sir," called Lieutenant Thorpe.

Letting out a long sigh, Runel almost dejectedly tossed the handset back down onto the table.

Taking in a long breath as the reverberating sound of the ship's main batteries firing disappeared, Runel slowly looked around CIC, to Colonel McQueen, to the Supreme Commander, as an almost surreal calm settled in; a palpable sensation hanging over them that seemed to scream, 'what now'?

His gaze slowly returning to the screens overhead, Runel watched as the battered remnants of the Chig fleet slowly began to consolidate on DRADIS.

Turning to the Supreme Commander, Runel held to helmeted figure's gaze.

"Much as I am loathe to say anything trite right now, I must admit, your people fought bravely," sighed Runel.

"While I am loathe to say something so patently trite at a moment like this, you prople fought very bravely today, Supreme Commander," sighed Runel.

"Our losses today were great," replied the Supreme Commander soberly as he looked over towards the DRADIS, towards the almost painfully few icons which represented the remainder of his fleet. "But at least they were not lost in vain."

"I just wish we'd been able to inflict more damage on the Silicates before they pulled out," sighed Runel as he slowly looked back up at the screens as well. "With their jump drives, they could come back once they've had a chance to regroup."

Likewise looking up towards the mere smattering of contacts which represented the remainder of his fleet, the Supreme Commander bowed his head slightly.

"If they do return, we will at least be fighting them as a free people," he stated evenly.

"Considering how badly your fleet's been mauled, you'll likely need every available ship if they do come back," interjected McQueen, a long breath escaping him as he likewise looked over towards Supreme Commander. "Not a lot of fighters or troops to spare for any _other_ operations."

"That is correct, Colonel McQueen," replied the Supreme Commander evenly as he momentarily met McQueen's gaze. "Protecting the homeworld is our only priority now."

With that, the Supreme Commander turned back to Colonel Runel, and under the curiously watchful, and in the case of the armed Marines nearby by, cautiously vigilant eyes, slowly knelt down in front of him.

Slowly reaching up, the Supreme Commander then removed the curved metal plate attached to the protrusion on his chest, his glove-encrusted hands cradling it for a moment before holding it out towards Runel, the Supreme Commander bending bown still more before Colonel Runel.

"As the Supreme Commander of my people's military forces, I formally surrender to you, Colonel Runel" stated the Supreme Commander evenly. "We are at your mercy."

Uncertain, even hesitant, Colonel Runel looked down at the nearly proned-out form of the Supreme Commander, then over to Colonel McQueen.

"Colonel?" prodded Runel.

Taking in a quick breath as he looked over at the prostrate Supreme Commander, McQueen looked genuinely surprised.

"Every other Chig who's ever been taken prisoner has resisted, sometimes violently, having that object removed from their person," stated McQueen as he pointed over towards the concave metal plate held up by the Supreme Commander. "If he is offering it to you, then he _is_ formally surrendering."

Looking down at the object being held up by the Supreme Commander, Runel tentatively reached out towards it, his fingers pausing just short of touching it.

Then, taking in a deep breath, Runel slowly pulled his hand back.

"No," he said evenly as he looked back over to McQueen. "We are still the outsiders here, Colonel McQueen."

With that, Runel nodded his head slightly towards McQueen, motioning for him to come around from the far side of the plot table.

Visibly taken somewhat by surprise by the action, McQueen nevertheless made his way around the plot table, slowly stepping up before the still-prostrate Supreme Commander.

Looking up for a moment, out into the myriad of eyes looking back at him, McQueen was suddenly all too keenly aware of the full ramifications of the moment he now found himself in.

Taking in a deep, steadying breath, McQueen reached over and gently took hold of the concave plate.

"Supreme Commander, as representative of the United Nations International Forces, I hereby accept your surrender."

Slowly returning to an upright kneeling position, the Supreme Commander looked up at McQueen.

McQueen for his part, merely stood looking down at the concave plate in his hand.

"Are you okay, Colonel?" prodded Runel as he noted the somewhat distant look in McQueen's eyes.

"Just thinking," sighed McQueen as he looked back over at the kneeling Supreme Commander. "Two years of war, uncounted lives lost; one of the most costly and vicious conflicts in our history, now over in so simple and almost absurd a way."

Pausing, McQueen gently closed his hand in around the concave plate, a long sigh escaping as he continued to look down at the Supreme Commander.

"Ending not with a bang, but a whimper."


End file.
